THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE. 


(See  f.  8. 


Jflute  anfc  Wolin 

AND  OTHER  KENTUCKY  TALES 
AND  ROMANCES.  BY  JAMES 
LANE  ALLEN.  ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS 


MDCCCXCVI. 


Copyright.  1891,  oy  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

All  rights  reserved 


College 
Library 


1ber 


FROM  WHOSE  FRAIL  BODY  HE  DREW  LIFE  IN  THE 
BEGINNING,  FROM    WHOSE    STRONG    SPIRIT    HE 
WILL  DRAW  LIFE  UNTIL  THE  CLOSE,  THESE 
TALES,  WITH  ALL  OTHERS  HAPLY  HERE 
AFTER  TO    BE  WRITTEN,  ARE   DEDI 
CATED  AS  A  PERISHABLE  MONU 
MENT     OF     INEFFABLE 
REMEMBRANCE 


1115957 


PREFACE. 

THE  opening  tale  of  this  collection  is  taken 
from  HARPER'S  MONTHLY ;  the  others,  from  the 
Century  Magazine.  By  leave  of  these  periodicals 
they  are  now  published,  and  of  the  kindness  thus 
shown  the  author  makes  grateful  acknowledgment. 

While  the  tales  and  sketches  have  been  appear 
ing,  the  authorship  of  them  has  now  and  then 
been  charged  to  Mr.  James  Lane  Allen,  of  Chi 
cago,  Illinois — pardonably  to  his  discomfiture. 

A  sense  of  fitness  forbade  that  the  author  should 
send  along  with  each,  as  it  carne  out,  a  claim  that 
it  was  not  another's ;  but  he  now  gladly  asks  that 
the  responsibility  of  all  his  work  be  placed  where 
it  solely  belongs. 


CONTENTS. 


FLUTE  AND  VIOLIN  . 
V  KING    SOLOMON    OF 
KENTUCKY       .       . 
TWO       GENTLEMEN 
OF  KENTUCKY      . 


97 


THE  WHITE  COWL 135 

SISTER  DOLOROSA  .       .  175 

POSTHUMOUS  FAME  ...,..-.    28 1 


FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 


THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE.     / 


ON  one  of  the  dim  walls  of  Christ  Church,  in  Lex 
ington,  Kentucky,  there  hangs,  framed  in  thin  black 
wood,  an  old  rectangular  slab  of  marble.  A  legend 
sets  forth  that  the  tablet  is  in  memory  of  the  Reverend 
James  Moore,  first  minister  of  Christ  Church  and  Presi 
dent  of  Transylvania  University,  who  departed  this  life 
in  the  year  1814,  at  the  age  of  forty-nine.  Just  beneath 
runs  the  record  that  he  was  learned,  liberal,  amiable, 
and  pious. 

Save  this  concise  but  not  unsatisfactory  summary, 
little  is  now  known  touching  the  reverend  gentleman. 
A  search  through  other  sources  of  information  does, 
indeed,  result  in  reclaiming  certain  facts.  Thus,  it  ap 
pears  that  he  was  a  Virginian,  and  that  he  came  to 
Lexington  in  the  year  1792 — when  Kentucky  ceased  to 
be  a  county  of  Virginia,  and  became  a  State.  At  first 
he  was  a  candidate  for  the  ministry  of  the  Presbyterian 


4  FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 

Church  ;  but  the  Transylvania  Presbytery  having  re 
proved  him  for  the  liberality  of  his  sermons,  James 
kicked  against  such  rigor  in  his  brethren,  and  turned 
for  refuge  to  the  bosom  of  the  Episcopal  Communion. 
But  this  body  did  not  offer  much  of  a  bosom  to  take 
refuge  in. 

Virginia  Episcopalians  there  were  in  and  around  the 
little  wooden  town  ;  but  so  rampant  was  the  spirit  of 
the  French  Revolution  and  the  influence  of  French  in 
fidelity  that  a  celebrated  local  historian,  who  knew 
thoroughly  the  society  of  the  place,  though  writing  of  it 
long  afterwards,  declared  that  about  the  last  thing  it 
would  have  been  thought  possible  to  establish  there 
was  an  Episcopal  church. 

Not  so  thought  James.  He  beat  the  canebrakes  and 
scoured  the  buffalo  trails  for  his  Virginia  Episcopalians, 
huddled  them  into  a  dilapidated  little  frame  house  on 
the  site  of  the  present  building,  and  there  fired  so  dead 
ly  a  volley  of  sermons  at  the  sinners  free  of  charge  that 
they  all  became  living  Christians.  Indeed,  he  fired  so 
long  and  so  well  that,  several  years  later — under  favor 
of  Heaven  and  through  the  success  of  a  lottery  with  a 
one-thousand-dollar  prize  and  nine  hundred  and  seven 
ty-four  blanks — there  was  built  and  furnished  a  small 
brick  church,  over  which  he  was  regularly  called  to  offi 
ciate  twice  a  month,  at  a  salary  of  two  hundred  dollars 
a  year. 

Here  authentic  history  ends,  except  for  the  additional 
fact  that  in  the  university  he  sat  in  the  chair  of  logic, 
metaphysics,  moral  philosophy,  and  belles-lettres — a 
large  chair  to  sit  in  with  ill-matched  legs  and  most  un 
certain  bottom.  Another  authority  is  careful  to  state 
that  he  had  a  singularly  sweet  breath  and  beautiful 


THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE.  7 

manners.  Thus  it  has  been  well  with  the  parson  as 
respects  his  posthumous  fame ;  for  how  many  of  our 
fellow  -  creatures  are  learned  without  being  amiable, 
amiable  without  being  pious,  and  pious  without  having 
beautiful  manners ! 

And  yet  the  best  that  may  be  related  of  him  is  not 
told  in  the  books  ;  and  it  is  only  when  we  have  allowed 
the  dust  to  settle  once  more  upon  the  histories,  and 
have  peered  deep  into  the  mists  of  oral  tradition,  that 
the  parson  is  discovered  standing  there  in  spirit  and 
the  flesh,  but  muffled  and  ghost-like,  as  a  figure  seen 
through  a  dense  fog. 

A  tall,  thinnish  man,  with  silky  pale-brown  hair,  worn 
long  and  put  back  behind  his  ears,  the  high  tops  of 
which  bent  forward  a  little  under  the  weight,  and  thus 
took  on  the  most  remarkable  air  of  paying  incessant 
attention  to  everybody  and  everything ;  set  far  out  in 
front  of  these  ears,  as  though  it  did  not  wish  to  be  dis 
turbed  by  what  was  heard,  a  white,  wind-splitting  face, 
calm,  beardless,  and  seeming  never  to  have  been  cold, 
or  to  have  dropped  the  kindly  dew  of  perspiration ; 
under  the  serene  peak  of  this  forehead  a  pair  of  large 
gray  eyes,  patient  and  dreamy,  being  habitually  turned 
inward  upon  a  mind  toiling  with  hard  abstractions ; 
having  within  him  a  conscience  burning  always  like  a 
planet ;  a  bachelor — being  a  logician  ;  therefore  sweet- 
tempered,  never  having  sipped  the  sour  cup  of  experi 
ence  ;  gazing  covertly  at  womankind  from  behind  the 
delicate  veil  of  unfamiliarity  that  lends  enchantment; 
being  a  bachelor  and  a  bookworm,  therefore  already 
old  at  forty,  and  a  little  run  down  in  his  toilets,  a  little 
frayed  out  at  the  elbows  and  the  knees,  a  little  seamy 
along  the  back,  a  little  deficient  at  the  heels  ;  in  pocket 


8  FLUTE    AND   VIOLIN. 

poor  always,  and  always  the  poorer  because  of  a  spend 
thrift  habit  in  the  matter  of  secret  charities;  kneeling 
down  by  his  small  hard  bed  every  morning  and  praying 
that  during  the  day  his  logical  faculty  might  discharge 
its  function  morally,  and  that  his  moral  faculty  might 
discharge  its  function  logically,  and  that  over  all  the 
operations  of  all  his  other  faculties  he  might  find  heav 
enly  grace  to  exercise  both  a  logical  and  a  moral  con 
trol  ;  at  night  kneeling  down  again  to  ask  forgiveness 
that,  despite  his  prayer  of  the  morning,  one  or  more  of 
these  same  faculties  —  he  knew  and  called  them  all 
familiarly  by  name,  being  a  metaphysician  —  had  gone 
wrong  in  a  manner  the  most  abnormal,  shameless,  and 
unforeseen ;  thus,  on  the  whole,  a  man  shy  and  dry ; 
gentle,  lovable  ;  timid,  resolute  ;  forgetful,  remorseful ; 
eccentric,  impulsive,  thinking  too  well  of  every  human 
creature  but  himself ;  an  illogical  logician,  an  erring 
moralist,  a  wool  -  gathered  philosopher,  but,  humanly 
speaking,  almost  a  perfect  man. 

But  the  magic  flute  ?     Ah,  yes  !     The  magic  flute  ! 

Well,  the  parson  had  a  flute — a  little  one — and  the 
older  he  grew,  and  the  more  patient  and  dreamy  his 
gray  eyes,  always  the  more  and  more  devotedly  he  blew 
this  little  friend.  How  the  fond  soul  must  have  loved 
it !  They  say  that  during  his  last  days  as  he  lay  propped 
high  on  white  pillows,  once,  in  a  moment  of  wandering 
consciousness,  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  in  fancy 
lifting  it  from  the  white  counterpane,  carried  it  gently  to 
his  lips.  Then,  as  his  long,  delicate  fingers  traced  out 
the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  and  his  mouth  pursed  itself 
in  the  fashion  of  one  who  is  softly  blowing,  his  whole 
face  was  overspread  with  a  halo  of  ecstatic  peace. 

And  yet,  for  all  the  love  he  bore  it,  the  parson  was 


THE    PARSON  S    MAGIC    FLUTE.  9 

never  known  to  blow  his  flute  between  the  hours  of  sun 
rise  and  sunset  —  that  is,  never  but  once.  Alas,  that 
memorable  day!  But  when  the  night  fell  and  he  came 
home — home  to  the  two-story  log-house  of  the  widow 
Spurlock ;  when  the  widow  had  given  him  his  supper 
of  coffee  sweetened  with  brown  sugar,  hot  johnny-cake, 
with  perhaps  a  cold  joint  of  venison  and  cabbage  pickle  ; 
when  he  had  taken  from  the  supper  table,  by  her  per 
mission,  the  solitary  tallow  dip  in  its  little  brass  candle 
stick,  and  climbed  the  rude  steep  stairs  to  his  room  above ; 
when  he  had  pulled  the  leathern  string  that  lifted  the 
latch,  entered,  shut  the  door  behind  him  on  the  world, 
placed  the  candle  on  a  little  deal  table  covered  with 
text-books  and  sermons,  and  seated  himself  beside  it  in 
a  rush- bottomed  chair — then —  He  began  to  play? 
Xo  :  then  there  was  dead  silence. 

For  about  half  an  hour  this  silence  continued.  The 
widow  Spurlock  used  to  say  that  the  parson  was  giving 
his  supper  time  to  settle ;  but,  alas !  it  must  have  set 
tled  almost  immediately,  so  heavy  was  the  johnny-cake. 
Howbeit,  at  the  close  of  such  an  interval,  any  one  stand 
ing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  below,  or  listening  beneath 
the  window  on  the  street  outside,  would  have  heard  the 
silence  broken. 

At  first  the  parson  blew  low,  peculiar  notes,  such  as  a 
kind  and  faithful  shepherd  might  blow  at  nightfall  as 
an  invitation  for  his  scattered  wandering  sheep  to  gather 
home  about  him.  Perhaps  it  was  a  way  he  had  of  call 
ing  in  the  disordered  flock  of  his  faculties — some  weary, 
some  wounded,  some  torn  by  thorns,  some  with  their 
fleeces,  which  had  been  washed  white  in  the  morning 
prayer,  now  bearing  many  a  stain.  But  when  they  had 
all  answered,  as  it  were,  to  this  musical  roll-call,  and  had 


10  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

taken  their  due  places  within  the  fold  of  his  brain,  obe 
dient,  attentive,  however  weary,  however  suffering,  then 
the  flute  was  laid  aside,  and  once  more  there  fell  upon 
the  room  intense  stillness  ;  the  poor  student  had  entered 
upon  his  long  nightly  labors. 

Hours  passed.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  but  the 
rustle  of  book  leaves,  now  rapidly,  now  slowly  turned,  or 
the  stewing  of  sap  in  the  end  of  a  log  on  the  hearth,  or 
the  faint  drumming  of  fingers  on  the  table— those  long 
ringers,  the  tips  of  which  seemed  not  so  full  of  particles 
of  blood  as  of  notes  of  music,  circulating  impatiently 
back  and  forth  from  his  heart.  At  length,  as  midnight 
drew  near,  and  the  candle  began  to  sputter  in  the  sock 
et,  the  parson  closed  the  last  book  with  a  decisive  snap, 
drew  a  deep  breath,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a 
moment,  as  if  asking  a  silent  blessing  on  the  day's  work, 
and  then,  reaching  for  his  flute,  squared  himself  before 
the  dying  embers,  and  began  in  truth  to  play.  This 
was  the  one  brief,  pure  pleasure  he  allowed  himself. 

It  was  not  a  musical  roll-call  that  he  now  blew,  but  a 
dismissal  for  the  night.  One  might  say  that  he  was 
playing  the  cradle  song  of  his  mind.  And  what  a  cra 
dle  song  it  was  !  A  succession  of  undertone,  silver- 
clear,  simple  melodies  ;  apparently  one  for  each  faculty, 
as  though  he  was  having  something  kind  to  say  to  them 
all ;  thanking  some  for  the  manner  in  which  they  had 
served  him  during  the  day,  the  music  here  being  brave 
and  spirited  ;  sympathizing  with  others  that  had  been 
unjustly  or  too  rudely  put  upon,  the  music  here  being 
plaintive  and  soothing ;  and  finally  granting  his  pardon 
to  any  such  as  had  not  used  him  quite  fairly,  the  music 
here  having  a  searching,  troubled  quality,  though  end 
ing  in  the  faintest  breath  of  love  and  peace. 


THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE.  n 

It  was  not  known  whence  the  parson  had  these  mel 
odies  ;  but  come  whence  they  might,  they  were  airs  of 
heavenly  sweetness,  and  as  he  played  them,  one  by  one 
his  faculties  seemed  to  fall  asleep  like  quieted  children. 
His  long,  out -stretched  legs  relaxed  their  tension,  his 
feet  fell  over  sidewise  on  the  hearth-stone,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  head  sank  towards  his  shoulder.  Still,  he  managed 
to  hold  on  to  his  flute,  faintly  puffing  a  few  notes  at 
greater  intervals,  until  at  last,  by  the  dropping  of  the 
flute  from  his  hands  or  the  sudden  rolling  of  his  big 
head  backward,  he  would  awaken  with  a  violent,  jerk. 
The  next  minute  he  would  be  asleep  in  bed,  with  one 
ear  out  on  guard,  listening  for  the  first  sound  that  should 
awake  him  in  the  morning. 

Such  having  been  the  parson's  fixed  habit  as  long  as 
any  one  had  known  him,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  five 
years  before  his  death  he  abruptly  ceased  to  play  his 
flute  and  never  touched  it  again.  But  from  this  point 
the  narrative  becomes  so  mysterious  that  it  were  better 
to  have  the  testimony  of  witnesses. 


II. 

Every  bachelor  in  this  world  is  secretly  watched  by 
some  woman.  The  parson  was  watched  by  several,  but 
most  closely  by  two.  One  of  these  was  the  widow 
Spurlock,  a  personage  of  savory  countenance  and  whole 
some  figure — who  was  accused  by  the  widow  Babcock, 
living  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  of  having  robust  in 
tentions  towards  her  lodger.  This  piece  of  slander  had 
no  connection  with  the  fact  that  she  had  used  the  point 
of  her  carving  knife  to  enlarge  in  the  door  of  his  room 


12 


FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 


the  hole  through  which  the  latch- 
string  passed,  in  order  that  she  might 
increase  the  ventilation.  The  aper 
ture  for  ventilation  thus  formed  was 
exactly  the  size  of  one  of  her  inno 
cent  black  eyes. 

The  other  woman  was  an  infirm, 
ill-favored  beldam  by  the  name  of 
Arsena  Furnace,  who  lived  alone  just 
across  the  street,  and  whose  bedroom 
was  on  the  second  floor,  on  a  level 
with  the  parson's.  Being  on  terms 
of  great  intimacy  with  the  widow  Spurlock,  she  persuad 
ed  the  latter  that  the  parson's  room  was  poorly  lighted 
for  one  who  used  his  eyes  so  much,  and  that  the  win 
dow-curtain  of  red  calico  should  be  taken  down.  On 
the  same  principle  of  requiring  less  sun  because  having 
less  use  for  her  eyes,  she  hung  before  her  own  window 
a  faded  curtain,  transparent  only  from  within.  Thus 
these  two  devoted,  conscientious  souls  conspired  to 
provide  the  parson  unawares  with  a  sufficiency  of  air 
and  light. 

On  Friday  night,  then,  of  August  31,  1809 — for  this 
was  the  exact  date  —  the  parson  played  his  flute  as 
usual,  because  the  two  women  were  sitting  together  be 
low  and  distinctly  heard  him.  It  was  unusual  for  them 
to  be  up  at  such  an  hour,  but  on  that  day  the  draw 
ing  of  the  lottery  had  come  off,  and  they  had  held  tick 
ets,  and  were  discussing  their  disappointment  in  having 
drawn  blanks.  Towards  midnight  the  exquisite  notes 
of  the  flute  floated  down  to  them  from  the  parson's 
room. 

"  I  suppose   he'll  keep  on  playing  those  same  old 


THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE.  13 

tunes  as  long  as  there  is  a  thimbleful  of  wind  in  him. 
1  wish  he'd  learn  some  new  ones,"  said  the  hag,  taking 
her  cold  pipe  from  her  cold  lips,  and  turning  her  eyes 
towards  her  companion  with  a  look  of  some  impatience. 

"  He  might  be  better  employed  at  such  an  hour  than 
playing  on  the  flute,"  replied  the  widow,  sighing  audibly 
and  smoothing  a  crease  out  of  her  apron. 

As  by-and-by  the  notes  of  the  flute  became  intermit 
tent,  showing  that  the  parson  was  beginning  to  fall 
asleep,  Arsena  said  good-night,  and  crossing  the  street 
to  her  house,  mounted  to  the  front  window.  Yes,  there 
he  was  ;  the  long  legs  stretched  out  towards  the  hearth, 
head  sunk  sidewise  on  his  shoulder,  flute  still  at  his 
lips,  the  sputtering  candle  throwing  its  shadowy  light 
over  his  white  weary  face,  now  wearing  a  smile.  With 
out  doubt  he  played  his  flute  that  night  as  usual ;  and 
Arsena,  tired  of  the  sight,  turned  away  and  went  to  bed. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  widow  Spurlock  placed  an 
eye  at  the  aperture  of  ventilation,  wishing  to  see  wheth 
er  the  logs  on  the  fire  were  in  danger  of  rolling  out  and 
setting  fire  to  the  parson's  bed ,  but  suddenly  remem 
bering  that  it  was  August,  and  that  there  was  no  fire, 
she  glanced  around  to  see  whether  his  candle  needed 
snuffing.  Happening,  however,  to  discover  the  parson 
in  the  act  of  shedding  his  coat,  she  withdrew  her  eye, 
and  hastened  precipitately  down-stairs,  but  sighing  so 
loud  that  he  surely  must  have  heard  her  had  not  his 
faculty  of  external  perception  been  already  fast  asleep. 

At  about  three  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day,  as  Arsena  was  sweeping  the  floor  of  her  kitchen, 
there  reached  her  ears  a  sound  which  caused  her  to  lis 
ten  for  a  moment,  broom  in  air.  It  was  the  parson 
playing — playing  at  three  o'clock  in  -the  afternoon  ! — 


14  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

and  playing — she  strained  her  ears  again  and  again  to 
make  sure — playing  a  Virginia  reel.  Still,  not  believ 
ing  her  ears,  she  hastened  aloft  to  the  front  window  and 
looked  across  the  street.  At  the  same  instant  the  wid 
ow  Spurlock,  in  a  state  of  equal  excitement,  hurried  to 
the  front  door  of  her  house,  and  threw  a  quick  glance 
up  at  Arsena's  window.  The  hag  thrust  a  skinny  hand 
through  a  slit  in  the  curtain  and  beckoned  energetically, 
and  a  moment  later  the  two  women  stood  with  their 
heads  close  together  watching  the  strange  performance. 
Some  mysterious  change  had  come  over  the  parson 
and  over  the  spirit  of  his  musical  faculty.  He  sat  up 
right  in  his  chair,  looking  ten  years  younger,  his  whole 
figure  animated,  his  foot  beating  time  so  audibly  that  it 
could  be  heard  across  the  street,  a  vivid  bloom  on  his 
lifeless  cheeks,  his  head  rocking  to  and  fro  like  a  ship 
in  a  storm,  and  his  usually  dreamy,  patient  gray  eyes  now 
rolled  up  towards  the  ceiling  in  sentimental  perturbation. 
And  how  he  played  that  Virginia  reel !  Not  once,  but 
over  and  over,  and  faster  and  faster,  until  the  notes 
seemed  to  get  into  the  particles  of  his  blood  and  set 
them  to  dancing.  And  when  he  had  finished  that,  he 
snatched  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  dashed  it 
across  his  lips,  blew  his  nose  with  a  resounding  snort, 
and  settling  his  figure  into  a  more  determined  attitude, 
began  another.  And  the  way  he  went  at  that !  And 
when  he  finished  that,  the  way  he  went  at  another !  Two 
negro  boys,  passing  along  the  street  with  a  spinning- 
wheel,  put  it  down  and  paused  to  listen  ;  then,  catching 
the  infection  of  the  music,  they  began  to  dance.  And 
then  the  widow  Spurlock,  catching  the  infection  also, 
began  to  dance,  and  bouncing  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  there  actually  did  dance  until  her  tucking -comb 


THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE.  15 

rolled  out.  and  —  ahem! — one  of  her  stockings  slipped 
down.  Then  the  parson  struck  up  the  "  Fisher's  Horn 
pipe,"  and  the  widow,  still  in  sympathy,  against  her  will, 
sang  the  words  : 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  Devil 

With  his  wood  and  iron  shovel, 

A-hoeing  up  coal 

For  to  burn  your  soul  ?" 

"  He's  bewitched,"  said  old  Arsena,  trembling  and 
sick  with  terror. 

"  By  whom  ?"  cried  the  widow  Spurlock,  indignantly, 
laying  a  heavy  hand  on  Arsena's  shoulder. 

"  By  his  flute,"  replied  Arsena,  more  fearfully. 

At  length  the  parson,  as  if  in  for  it,  and  possessed  to 
go  all  lengths,  jumped  from  his  chair,  laid  the  flute  on 
the  table,  and  disappeared  in  a  hidden  corner  of  the 
room.  Here  he  kept  closely  locked  a  large  brass-nailed 
hair  trunk,  over  which  hung  a  looking-glass.  For  ten 
minutes  the  two  women  waited  for  him  to  reappear,  and 
then  he  did  reappear,  not  in  the  same  clothes,  but  wear 
ing  the  ball  dress  of  a  Virginia  gentleman  of  an  older 
time,  perhaps  his  grandfather's  —  knee-breeches,  silk 
stockings,  silver  buckles,  low  shoes,  laces  at  his  wrists, 
laces  at  his  throat  and  down  his  bosom.  And  to  make 
the  dress  complete  he  had  actually  tied  a  blue  ribbon 
around  his  long  silky  hair.  Stepping  airily  and  gal 
lantly  to  the  table,  he  seized  the  flute,  and  with  a  little 
wave  of  it  through  the  air  he  began  to  play,  and  to  tread 
the  mazes  of  the  minuet,  about  the  room,  this  way  and 
that,  winding  and  bowing,  turning  and  gliding,  but  all 
the  time  fingering  and  blowing  for  dear  life. 

"Who  would  have  thought  it  was  in  him  ?"  said  Ar 
sena,  her  fear  changed  to  admiration. 


1 6  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

"/would  !"  said  the  widow. 

While  he  was  in  the  midst  of  this  performance  the 
two  women  had  their  attention  withdrawn  from  him  in 
a  rather  singular  way.  A  poor  lad  hobbling  on  a  crutch 
made  his  appearance  in  the  street  below,  and  rapidly 
but  timidly  swung  himself  along  to  the  widow  Spurlock's 
door.  There  he  paused  a  moment,  as  if  overcome  by 
mortification,  but  finally  knocked.  His  summons  not 
being  answered,  he  presently  knocked  more  loudly. 

"  Hist !"  said  the  widow  to  him,  in  a  half-tone,  open 
ing  a  narrow  slit  in  the  curtain.  "  What  do  you  want, 
David  ?" 

The  boy  wheeled  and  looked  up,  his  face  at  once 
crimson  with  shame.  "  I  want  to  see  the  parson,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible. 

"  The  parson's  not  at  home,"  replied  the  widow,  sharp 
ly.  "  He's  out ;  studying  up  a  sermon."  And  she  closed 
the  curtain. 

An  expression  of  despair  came  into  the  boy's  face, 
and  for  a  moment  in  physical  weakness  he  sat  down  on 
the  door-step.  He  heard  the  notes  of  the  flute  in  the 
room  above ;  he  knew  that  the  parson  was  at  home  ; 
but  presently  he  got  up  and  moved  away. 

The  women  did  not  glance  after  his  retreating  fig 
ure,  being  reabsorbed  by  the  movements  of  the  parson. 
Whence  had  he  that  air  of  grace  and  high-born  cour 
tesy  ?  that  vivacity  of  youth  ? 

"  He  must  be  in  love,"  said  Arsena.  "  He  must  be 
in  love  with  the  widow  Babcock." 

"  He's  no  more  in  love  with  her  than  /  am,"  replied 
her  companion,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

A  few  moments  later  the  parson,  whose  motions  had 
been  gradually  growing  less  animated,  ceased  dancing, 


"HE   BEGAN   TO    PLAY." 


THE    PARSON  S    MAGIC    FLUTE.  19 

and  disappeared  once  more  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
soon  emerging  therefrom  dressed  in  his  own  clothes, 
but  still  wearing  on  his  hair  the  blue  ribbon,  which  he 
had  forgotten  to  untie.  Seating  himself  in  his  chair  by 
the  table,  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  with 
his  eyes  on  the  floor  seemed  to  pass  into  a  trance  of 
rather  demure  and  dissatisfying  reflections. 

When  he  came  down  to  supper  that  night  he  still 
wore  his  hair  in  the  forgotten  queue,  and  it  may  have 
been  this  that  gave  him  such  an  air  of  lamb-like  meek 
ness.  The  widow  durst  ask  him  no  questions,  for 
there  was  that  in  him  which  held  familiarity  at  a  dis 
tance  ;  but  although  he  ate  with  unusual  heartiness, 
perhaps  on  account  of  such  unusual  exercise,  he  did 
not  lift  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and  thanked  her  for  all 
her  civilities  with  a  gratitude  that  was  singularly  plain 
tive. 

That  night  he  did  not  play  his  flute.  The  next  day 
being  Sunday,  and  the  new  church  not  yet  being  opened, 
he  kept  his  room.  Early  in  the  afternoon  a  messenger 
handed  to  the  widow  a  note  for  him,  which,  being  sealed, 
she  promptly  delivered.  On  reading  it  he  uttered  a 
quick,  smothered  cry  of  grief  and  alarm,  seized  his  hat, 
and  hurried  from  the  house.  The  afternoon  passed  and 
he  did  not  return.  Darkness  fell,  supper  hour  came 
and  went,  the  widow  put  a  candle  in  his  room,  and  then 
went  across  to  commune  with  Arsena  on  these  unusual 
proceedings. 

Not  long  afterwards  they  saw  him  enter  his  room  car 
rying  under  his  arm  a  violin  case.  This  he  deposited 
on  the  table,  and  sitting  down  beside  it,  lifted  out  a  boy's 
violin. 

"A  boy's  violin  !"  muttered  Arsena. 


20  FLUTE   AND    VIOLIN. 

"A  boy's  violin !"  muttered  the  widow  ;  and  the  two 
women  looked  significantly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Humph !" 

"  Humph !" 

By-and-by  the  parson  replaced  the  violin  in  the  box 
and  sat  motionless  beside  it,  one  of  his  arms  hanging 
listlessly  at  his  side,  the  other  lying  on  the  table.  The 
candle  shone  full  in  his  face,  and  a  storm  of  emotions 
passed  over  it.  At  length  they  saw  him  take  up  the 
violin  again,  go  to  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room,  mount 
a  chair,  knot  the  loose  strings  together,  and  hang  the 
violin  on  a  nail  above  his  meagre  shelf  of  books.  Upon 
it  he  hung  the  bow.  Then  they  saw  him  drive  a  nail  in 
the  wall  close  to  the  other,  take  his  flute  from  the  table, 
tie  around  it  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon  he  had  picked  up 
off  the  floor,  and  hang  it  also  on  the  wall.  After  this  he 
went  back  to  the  table,  threw  himself  in  his  chair,  buried 
his  head  in  his  arms,  and  remained  motionless  until  the 
candle  burned  out. 

''What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  said  one  of  the 
two  women,  as  they  separated  below. 

"  I'll  find  out  if  it's  the  last  act  of  my  life,"  said  the 
other. 

But  find  out  she  never  did.  For  question  the  parson 
directly  she  dared  not ;  and  neither  to  her  nor  any  one 
else  did  he  ever  vouchsafe  an  explanation.  Whenever, 
in  the  thousand  ways  a  woman  can,  she  would  hint  her 
desire  to  fathom  the  mystery,  he  would  baffle  her  by  as 
suming  an  air  of  complete  unconsciousness,  or  repel  her 
by  a  look  of  warning  so  cold  that  she  hurriedly  changed 
the  subject. 

As  time  passed  on  it  became  evident  that  some  grave 
occurrence  indeed  had  befallen  him.  Thenceforth,  and 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN. 


21 


during  the  five  re 
maining  years  of  his 
life,  he  was  never  quite 
the  same.  For  months 
his  faculties,  long  used 
to  being  soothed  at 
midnight  by  the  music 
of  the  flute,  were  like 
children  put  to  bed 
hungry  and  refused  to 
be  quieted,  so  that 
sleep  came  to  him 
only  after  hours  of 
waiting  and  tossing, 
and  his  health  suffer 
ed  in  consequence. 
And  then  in  all  things 
he  lived  like  one  who 
was  watching  himself 
closely  as  a  person  not 
to  be  trusted. 

Certainly  he  was  a 
sadder  man.  Often 
the  two  women  would 
see  him  lift  his  eyes 
from  his  books  at 
night,  and  turn  them 
long  and  wistfully 

towards  the  wall  of  the  room  where,  gathering  cobwebs 
and  dust,  hung  the  flute  and  the  violin. 

If  any  one  should  feel  interested  in  having  this  whole 
mystery  cleared  up,  he  may  read  the  following  tale  of  a 
boy's  violin. 


22  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 


III. 

A  BOY'S  VIOLIN. 

Ox  Friday,  the  3ist  of  August,  1809 — that  being  the 
day  of  the  drawing  of  the  lottery  for  finishing  and  fur 
nishing  the  new  Episcopal  church — at  about  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  there  might  have  been  seen  hobbling 
slowly  along  the  streets,  in  the  direction  of  the  public 
square,  a  little  lad  by  the  name  of  David.  He  was  idle 
and  lonesome,  not  wholly  through  his  fault.  If  there 
had  been  white  bootblacks  in  those  days,  he  might  now 
have  been  busy  around  a  tavern  door  polishing  the  no 
ble  toes  of  some  old  Revolutionary  soldier  ;  or  if  there 
had  been  newsboys,  he  might  have  been  selling  the 
Gazette  or  the  Reporter — the  two  papers  which  the  town 
afforded  at  that  time.  But  there  were  enough  negro 
slaves  to  polish  all  the  boots  in  the  town  for  nothing 
when  the  boots  got  polished  at  all,  as  was  often  not  the 
case ;  and  if  people  wanted  to  buy  a  newspaper,  they 
went  to  the  office  of  the  editor  and  publisher,  laid  the 
silver  down  on  the  counter,  and  received  a  copy  from 
the  hands  of  that  great  man  himself. 

The  lad  was  not  even  out  on  a  joyous  summer  vaca 
tion,  for  as  yet  there  was  not  a  public  school  in  the 
town,  and  his  mother  was  too  poor  to  send  him  to  a 
private  one,  teaching  him  as  best  she  could  at  home. 
This  home  was  one  of  the  rudest  of  the  log- cabins  of 
the  town,  built  by  his  father,  who  had  been  killed  a  few 
years  before  in  a  tavern  brawl.  His  mother  earned  a 
scant  livelihood,  sometimes  by  taking  in  coarse  sewing 


A    BOY  S   VIOLIN.  23 

for  the  hands  of  the  hemp  factory,  sometimes  by  her 
loom,  on  which  with  rare  skill  she  wove  the  finest  fab 
rics  of  the  time. 

As  he  hobbled  on  towards  the  public  square,  he  came 
to  an  elm-tree  which  cast  a  thick  cooling  shade  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  sitting  down,  he  laid  his  rickety  crutch  be 
side  him,  and  drew  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  home-made 
tow  breeches  a  tangled  mass  of  articles — pieces  of  vio 
lin  strings,  all  of  which  had  plainly  seen  service  under 
the  bow  at  many  a  dance ;  three  old  screws,  belonging 
in  their  times  to  different  violin  heads ;  two  lumps  of 
resin,  one  a  rather  large  lump  of  dark  color  and  com 
mon  quality,  the  other  a  small  lump  of  transparent  am 
ber  wrapped  sacredly  to  itself  in  a  little  brown  paper 
bag  labelled  "  Cucumber  Seed  •"  a  pair  of  epaulets,  the 
brass  fringes  of  which  were  tarnished  and  torn;  and 
further  miscellany. 

These  treasures  he  laid  out  one  by  one,  first  brush 
ing  the  dirt  off  the  sidewalk  with  the  palm  of  one  dirty 
hand,  and  then  putting  his  mouth  close  down  to  blow 
away  any  loose  particles  that  might  remain  to  soil  them ; 
and  when  they  were  all  displayed,  he  propped  himself 
on  one  elbow,  and  stretched  his  figure  caressingly  be 
side  them. 

A  pretty  picture  the  lad  made  as  he  lay  there  dream 
ing  over  his  earthly  possessions — a  pretty  picture  in  the 
shade  of  the  great  elm,  that  sultry  morning  of  August, 
three-quarters  of  a  century  ago  !  The  presence  of  the 
crutch  showed  there  was  something  sad  about  it;  and 
so  there  was ;  for  if  you  had  glanced  at  the  little  bare 
brown  foot,  set  toes  upward  on  the  curb -stone,  you 
would  have  discovered  that  the  fellow  to  it  was  missing; 

O 

— cut  off  about  two  inches  above  the  ankle.    And  if  this 


24  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

had  caused  you  to  throw  a  look  of  sympathy  at  his  face, 
something  yet  sadder  must  long  have  held  your  atten 
tion.  Set  jauntily  on  the  back  of  his  head  was  a  weath 
er-beaten  dark  blue  cloth  cap,  the  patent-leather  frontlet 
of  which  was  gone ;  and  beneath  the  ragged  edge  of 
this  there  fell  down  over  his  forehead  and  temples  and 
ears  a  tangled  mass  of  soft  yellow  hair,  slightly  curling. 
His  eyes  were  large,  and  of  a  blue  to  match  the  depths 
of  the  calm  sky  above  the  tree -tops;  the  long  lashes 
which  curtained  them  were  brown ;  his  lips  were  red, 
his  nose  delicate  and  fine,  and  his  cheeks  tanned  to  the 
color  of  ripe  peaches.  It  was  a  singularly  winning  face, 
intelligent,  frank,  not  describable.  On  it  now  rested  a 
smile,  half  joyous,  half  sad,  as  though  his  mind  was  full 
of  bright  hopes,  the  realization  of  which  was  far  away. 
From  his  neck  fell  the  wide  collar  of  a  white  cotton 
shirt,  clean  but  frayed  at  the  elbows,  and  open  and  but- 
tonless  down  his  bosom.  Over  this  he  wore  an  old- 
fashioned  satin  waistcoat  of  a  man,  also  frayed  and  but- 
tonless.  His  dress  was  completed  by  a  pair  of  baggy 
tow  breeches,  held  up  by  a  single  tow  suspender  fast 
ened  to  big  brown  horn  buttons. 

After  a  while  he  sat  up,  letting  his  foot  hang  down 
over  the  curb-stone,  and  uncoiling  the  longest  of  the 
treble  strings,  he  put  one  end  between  his  shining  teeth, 
and  stretched  it  tight  by  holding  the  other  end  off  be 
tween  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  Then,  waving  in  the 
air  in  his  other  hand  an  imaginary  bow,  with  his  head 
resting  a  little  on  one  side,  his  eyelids  drooping,  his 
mind  in  a  state  of  dreamy  delight,  the  little  musician  be 
gan  to  play — began  to  play  the  violin  that  he  had  long 
been  working  for,  and  hoped  would- some  day  become 
his  own. 


A   BOY  S   VIOLIN.  25 

It  was  nothing  to  him  now  that  his  whole  perform 
ance  consisted  of  one  broken  string.  It  was  nothing 
to  him,  as  his  body  rocked  gently  to  and  fro,  that  he 
could  not  hear  the  music  which  ravished  his  soul.  So 
real  was  that  music  to  him  that  at  intervals,  with  a  lit 
tle  frown  cf  vexation  as  though  things  were  not  going 
perfectly,  he  would  stop,  take  up  the  small  lump  of  cost 
ly  resin,  and  pretend  to  rub  it  vigorously  on  the  hair  of 
the  fancied  bow.  Then  he  would  awake  that  delicious 
music  again,  playing  more  ecstatically,  more  passionate 
ly  than  before. 

At  that  moment  there  appeared  in  the  street,  about  a 
hundred  yards  off,  the  Reverend  James  Moore,  who  was 
also  moving  in  the  direction  of  the  public  square,  his 
face  more  cool  and  white  than  usual,  although  the  morn 
ing  was  never  more  sultry. 

He  had  arisen  with  an  all  but  overwhelming  sense  of 
the  importance  of  that  day.  Fifteen  years  are  an  im 
mense  period  in  a  brief  human  life,  especially  fifteen 
years  of  spiritual  toil,  hardships,  and  discouragements, 
rebuffs,  weaknesses,  and  burdens,  and  for  fifteen  such 
years  he  had  spent  himself  for  his  Episcopalians,  some 
of  whom  read  too  freely  Tom  Paine  and  Rousseau, 
some  loved  too  well  the  taverns  of  the  town,  some 
wrangled  too  fiercely  over  their  land  suits.  What  won 
der  if  this  day,  which,  despite  all  drawbacks,  was  to  wit 
ness  the  raising  of  money  for  equipping  the  first  brick 
church,  was  a  proud  and  happy  one  to  his  meek  but 
victorious  spirit !  What  wonder  if,  as  he  had  gotten 
out  of  bed  that  morning,  he  had  prayed  with  unusual 
fervor  that  for  this  day  in  especial  his  faculties,  from 
the  least  to  the  greatest,  and  from  the  weakest  to 
the  strongest,  might  discharge  their  functions  perfectly, 


26  FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 

and  that  the  drawing  of  the  lottery  might  come  off  de 
cently  and  in  good  order ;  and  that — yes,  this  too  was 
in  the  parson's  prayer — that  if  it  were  the  will  of  Heav 
en  and  just  to  the  other  holders  of  tickets,  the  right 
one  of  the  vestry-men  might  draw  the  thousand-dollar 
prize ;  for  he  felt  very  sure  that  otherwise  there  would 
be  little  peace  in  the  church  for  many  a  day  to  come, 
and  that  for  him  personally  the  path-way  of  life  would 
be  more  slippery  and  thorny. 

So  that  now  as  he  hurried  down  the  street  he  was 
happy ;  but  he  was  anxious  ;  and  being  excited  for  both 
reasons,  the  way  was  already  prepared  for  him  to  lose 
that  many-handed  self-control  which  he  had  prayed  so 
hard  to  retain. 

He  passed  within  the  shade  of  the  great  elm,  and 
then  suddenly  came  to  a  full  stop.  A  few  yards  in 
front  of  him  the  boy  was  performing  his  imaginary  vio 
lin  solo  on  a  broken  string,  and  the  sight  went  straight 
to  the  heart  of  that  musical  faculty  whose  shy  divinity 
was  the  flute.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  looking  on 
in  silence,  with  all  the  sympathy  of  a  musician  for  a 
comrade  in  poverty  and  distress. 

Other  ties  also  bound  him  to  the  boy.  If  the  divine 
voice  had  said  to  the  Reverend  James  Moore  :  "Among 
all  the  people  of  this  town,  it  will  be  allowed  you  to 
save  but  one  soul.  Choose  you  which  that  shall  be,"  he 
would  have  replied  :  "  Lord,  this  is  a  hard  saying,  for  I 
wish  to  save  them  all.  But  if  I  must  choose,  let  it  be 
the  soul  of  this  lad." 

The  boy's  father  and  he  had  been  boyhood  friends  in 
Virginia,  room-mates  and  classmates  in  college,  and  to 
gether  they  had  come  to  Kentucky.  Summoned  to  the 
tavern  on  the  night  of  the  fatal  brawl,  he  had  reached 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN. 


27 


the  scene  only  in  time  to  lay  his  old  playfellow's  head 
on  his  bosom,  and  hear  his  last  words  : 

"  Be  kind  to  my  boy ! ...  Be  a  better  father  to  him 
than  I  have  been  ! . .  .  Watch  over  him  and  help  him ! .  . . 
Guard  him  from  tempta 
tion  !  ...  Be  kind  to  him 
in  his   little  weaknesses  ! 
.  .  .  Win    his    heart,  and 
you    can    do    everything 
with  him ! .  .  .  Promise  me 
this  !" 

"  So  help  me  Heaven, 
all  that  I  can  do  for  him 
I  will  do !" 


From  that  moment  he  had  taken  upon  his  conscience, 
already  toiling  beneath  its  load  of  cares,  the  burden  of 
this  sacred  responsibility.  During  the  three  years  of 
his  guardianship  that  had  elapsed,  this  burden  had  not 
grown  lighter ;  for  apparently  he  had  failed  to  acquire 


28  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

any  influence  over  the  lad,  or  to  establish  the  least  friend 
ship  with  him.  It  was  a  difficult  nature  that  had  been 
bequeathed  him  to  master  —  sensitive,  emotional,  deli 
cate,  wayward,  gay,  rebellious  of  restraint,  loving  free 
dom  like  the  poet  and  the  artist.  The  Reverend  James 
Moore,  sitting  in  the  chair  of  logic,  moral  philosophy, 
metaphysics,  and  belles-lettres  ;  lecturing  daily  to  young 
men  on  all  the  powers  and  operations  of  the  human 
mind,  taking  it  to  pieces  and  putting  it  together  and 
understanding  it  so  perfectly,  knowing  by  name  every 
possible  form  of  fallacy  and  root  of  evil — the  Reverend 
James  Moore,  when  he  came  to  stud}'  the  living  mind 
of  this  boy,  confessed  to  himself  that  he  was  as  great  a 
dunce  as  the  greatest  in  his  classes.  But  he  loved  the 
boy,  nevertheless,  with  the  lonely  resources  of  his  nat 
ure,  and  he  never  lost  hope  that  he  would  turn  to  him 
in  the  end. 

How  long  he  might  have  stood  now  looking  on  and 
absorbed  with  the  scene,  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  for  the 
lad,  happening  to  look  up  and  see  him,  instantly,  with  a 
sidelong  scoop  of  his  hand,  the  treasures  on  the  side 
walk  disappeared  in  a  cavernous  pocket,  and  the  next 
moment  he  had  seized  his  crutch,  and  was  busy  fum 
bling  at  a  loosened  nail. 

"  Why,  good-morning,  David,"  cried  the  parson,  cheer 
ily,  but  with  some  embarrassment,  stepping  briskly  for 
ward,  and  looking  down  upon  the  little  figure  now  hang 
ing  its  head  with  guilt.  "  You've  got  the  coolest  seat 
in  town,"  he  continued,  "and  I  wish  I  had  time  to  sit 
down  and  enjoy  it  with  you  ;  but  the  drawing  comes 
off  at  the  lottery  this  morning,  and  I  must  hurry  down 
to  see  who  gets  the  capital  prize."  A  shade  of  anxiety 
settled  on  his  face  as  he  said  this.  "  But  here's  the 


A    BOY  S   VIOLIN.  29 

morning  paper,"  he  added,  drawing  out  of  his  coat-pock 
et  the  coveted  sheet  of  the  weekly  Reporter,  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  sending  to  the  lad's  mother,  knowing 
that  her  silver  was  picked  up  with  the  point  of  her  nee 
dle.  "  Take  it  to  your  mother,  and  tell  her  she  must  be 
sure  to  go  to  see  the  wax  figures."  What  a  persuasive 
smile  overspread  his  face  as  he  said  this!  "And  you 
must  be  certain  to  go  too  !  They'll  be  fine.  Good-bye." 

He  let  one  hand  rest  gently  on  the  lad's  blue  cloth 
cap,  and  looked  down  into  the  upturned  face  with  an 
expression  that  could  scarcely  have  been  more  tender. 

"  He  looks  feverish,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  walked 
away,  and  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  lottery. 

"Good-bye,"  replied  the  boy,  in  a  low  voice,  lifting  his 
dark  blue  eyes  slowly  to  the  patient  gray  ones.  "  I'm 
glad  he's  gone  !"  he  added  to  himself ;  but  he  never 
theless  gazed  after  the  disappearing  figure  with  shy 
fondness.  Then  he  also  began  to  think  of  the  lottery. 

If  Mr.  Leuba  should  draw  the  prize,  he  might  give 
Tom  Leuba  a  new  violin  ;  and  if  he  gave  Tom  a  new 
violin,  then  he  had  promised  to  give  him  Tom's  old  one. 
It  had  been  nearly  a  year  since  Mr.  Leuba  had  said  to 
him,  laughing,  in  his  dry,  hard  little  fashion  : 

"Now,  David,  you  must  be  smart  and  run  my  errands 
while  Tom's  at  school  of  mornings  ;  and  some  of  these 
days,  when  I  get  rich  enough,  I'll  give  Tom  a  new  violin 
and  I'll  give  you  his  old  one." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Leuba  !"  David  had  cried,  his  voice  quiver 
ing  with  excitement,  and  his  whole  countenance  beam 
ing  with  delight,  "  I'll  wait  on  you  forever,  if  you'll  give 
me  Tom's  old  violin." 

Yes,  nearly  a  whole  year  had  passed  since  then — 
a  lifetime  of  waiting  and  disappointment.  Many  an 


30  FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 

errand  he  had  run  for  Mr.  Leuba.  Many  a  bit  of  a  thing 
Mr.  Leuba  had  given  him  :  pieces  of  violin  strings,  odd 
worn-out  screws,  bits  of  resin,  old  epaulets,  and  a  few 
fourpences ;  but  the  day  had  never  come  when  he  had 
given  him  Tom's  violin. 

Now  if  Mr.  Leuba  would  only  draw  the  prize  !  As 
he  lay  on  his  back  on  the  sidewalk,  with  the  footless 
stump  of  a  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  he  held  the  news 
paper  between  his  eyes  and  the  green  limbs  of  the  elm 
overhead,  and  eagerly  read  for  the  last  time  the  adver 
tisement  of  the  lottery.  Then,  as  he  finished  reading  it, 
his  eyes  were  suddenly  riveted  upon  a  remarkable  no 
tice  printed  just  beneath. 

This  notice  stated  that  Messrs.  Ollendorf  and  Mason 
respectfully  acquainted  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Lex 
ington  that  they  had  opened  at  the  Kentucky  Hotel  a 
new  and  elegant  collection  of  wax  figures,  judged  by 
connoisseurs  to  be  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  any  exhib 
ited  in  America.  Among  which  are  the  following  char 
acters  :  An  excellent  representation  of  General  George 
Washington  giving  orders  to  the  Marquis  de  la  Fayette, 
his  aid.  In  another  scene  the  General  is  represented 
as  a  fallen  victim  to  death,  and  the  tears  of  America, 
represented  by  a  beautiful  female  weeping  over  him — 
which  makes  it  a  most  interesting  scene.  His  Excel 
lency  Thomas  Jefferson.  General  Buonaparte  in  mar 
shal  action.  General  Hamilton  and  Colonel  Burr.  In 
this  interesting  scene  the  Colonel  is  represented  in 
the  attitude  of  firing,  while  the  General  stands  at  his 
distance  waiting  the  result  of  the  first  fire :  both  accu 
rate  likenesses.  The  death  of  General  Braddock,  who 
fell  in  Braddock's  Defeat.  An  Indian  is  represented 
as  scalping  the  General,  while  one  of  his  men.  in  an 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  31 

attempt  to  rescue  him  out  of  the  hands  of  the  Indians, 
was  overtaken  by  another  Indian,  who  is  ready  to  split 
him  with  his  tomahawk.  Mrs.  Jerome  Buonaparte,  for 
merly  Miss  Patterson.  The  Sleeping  Beauty.  Eliza 
Wharton,  or  the  American  coquette,  with  her  favorite 
gallant  and  her  intimate  friend  Miss  Julia  Granby.  The 
Museum  will  be  open  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
'til  nine  in  the  evening.  Admittance  fifty  cents  for 
grown  persons ,  children  half  price.  Profiles  taken 
with  accuracy  at  the  Museum. 

The  greatest  attraction  of  the  whole  Museum  will  be 
a  large  magnificent  painting  of  Christ  in  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane. 

All  this  for  a  quarter!  The  newspaper  suddenly 
dropped  from  his  hands  into  the  dirt  of  the  street — he 
had  no  quarter  !  For  a  moment  he  sat  as  immovable 
as  if  the  thought  had  turned  him  into  stone  ;  but  the 
next  moment  he  had  sprung  from  the  sidewalk  and  was 
speeding  home  to  his  mother.  Never  before  had  the 
stub  of  the  little  crutch  been  plied  so  nimbly  among  the 
stones  of  the  rough  sidewalk.  Never  before  had  he 
made  a  prettier  picture,  with  the  blue  cap  pushed  far 
back  from  his  forehead,  his  yellow  hair  blowing  about 
his  face,  the  old  black  satin  waistcoat  flopping  like  a 
pair  of  disjointed  wings  against  his  sides,  the  open  news 
paper  streaming  backward  from  his  hand,  and  his  face 
alive  with  hope. 

IV. 

Two  hours  later  he  issued  from  the  house,  and  set  his 
face  in  the  direction  of  the  museum— a  face  full  of  ex 
citement  still,  but  full  also  of  pain,  because  he  had  no 


32  FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 

money,  and  saw  no  chance  of  getting  any.  It  was  a 
dull  time  of  the  year  for  his  mother's  work.  Only  the 
day  before  she  had  been  paid  a  month's  earnings,  and 
already  the  money  had  been  laid  out  for  the  frugal  ex 
penses  of  the  household.  It  would  be  a  long  time  be 
fore  any  more  would  come  in,  and  in  the  mean  time  the 
exhibition  of  wax  figures  would  have  been  moved  to 
some  other  town.  When  he  had  told  her  that  the  par 
son  had  said  that  she  must  go  to  see  them,  she  had 
smiled  fondly  at  him  from  beside  her  loom,  and  quietly 
shaken  her  head  with  inward  resignation ;  but  when  he 
told  her  the  parson  had  said  he  must  be  sure  to  go  too, 
the  smile  had  faded  into  an  expression  of  fixed  sadness. 

On  his  way  down  town  he  passed  the  little  music 
store  of  Mr.  Leuba,  which  was  one  block  this  side  of  the 
Kentucky  Hotel.  He  was  all  eagerness  to  reach  the 
museum,  but  his  ear  caught  the  sounds  of  the  violin, 
and  he  forgot  everything  else  in  his  desire  to  go  in  and 
speak  with  Tom,  for  Tom  was  nis  lord  and  master. 

"  Tom,  are  you  going  to  see  the  wax  figures  ?"  he  cried, 
with  trembling  haste,  curling  himself  on  top  of  the  keg 
of  nails  in  his  accustomed  corner  of  the  little  lumber- 
room.  But  Tom  paid  no  attention  to  the  question  or 
the  questioner,  being  absorbed  in  executing  an  intricate 
passage  of  "O  Thou  Fount  of  every  Blessing!"  For 
the  moment  David  forgot  his  question  himself,  absorbed 
likewise  in  witnessing  this  envied  performance. 

When  Tom  had  finished,  he  laid  the  violin  across  his 
knees  and  wiped  his  brow  with  his  shirt-sleeves.  "  Don't 
you  know  that  you  oughtn't  to  talk  to  me  when  I'm  per 
forming?"  he  said,  loftily,  still  not  deigning  to  look  at 
his  offending  auditor.  "Don't  you  know  that  it  dis 
turbs  a  fiddler  to  be  spoken  to  when  he's  performing  ?" 


EXECUTING  AN  INTRICATE   PASSAGE. 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  35 

Tom  was  an  overgrown,  rawboned  lad  of  some  fifteen 
years,  with  stubby  red  hair,  no  eyebrows,  large  watery 
blue  eyes,  and  a  long  neck  with  a  big  Adam's  apple. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt  you,  Tom,"  said  David, 
in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  penitence.  "  You  know  that 
I'd  rather  hear  you  play  than  anything." 

"Father  got  the  thousand -dollar  prize,"  said  Tom 
coldly,  accepting  the  apology  for  the  sake  of  the  com 
pliment. 

"  Oh,  Tom  f  I'm  so  glad  !  Hurrah  /"  shouted  David, 
waving  his  old  blue  cap  around  his  head,  his  face  trans 
figured  with  joy,  his  heart  leaping  with  a  sudden  hope, 
and  now  at  last  he  would  get  the  violin. 

"What  are  you  glad  for?"  said  Tom,  with  dreadful 
severity.  "  He's  my  father  ;  he's  not  your  father;"  and 
for  the  first  time  he  bestowed  a  glance  upon  the  little 
figure  curled  up  on  the  nail  keg,  and  bending  eagerly 
towards  him  with  clasped  hands. 

"  I  know  he's  your  father,  Tom,  but — " 

"  Well,  then,  what  are  you  glad  for  ?"  insisted  Tom. 
"You're  not  going  to  get  any  of  the  money." 

"  I  know  ftiaf,  Tom,"  said  David,  coloring  deeply, 
"but—" 

"  Well,  then,  what  are  you  glad  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  so  very  glad,  Tom,"  replied  David, 
sorrowfully. 

But  Tom  had  taken  up  the  bow  and  was  rubbing  the 
resin  on  it.  He  used  a  great  deal  of  resin  in  his  play 
ing,  and  would  often  proudly  call  David's  attention  to 
how  much  of  it  would  settle  as  a  white  dust  under  the 
bridge.  David  was  too  well  used  to  Tom's  rebuffs  to 
mind  them  long,  and  as  he  now  looked  on  at  this  resin- 
ing  process,  the  sunlight  came  back  into  his  face. 


36  FLUTE   AND    VIOLIN. 

"  Please  let  me  try  it  once,  Tom — just  once"  Expe 
rience  had  long  ago  taught  him  that  this  was  asking  too 
much  of  Tom;  but  with  the  new  hope  that  the  violin 
might  now  soon  become  his,  his  desire  to  handle  it  was 
ungovernable. 

"  Now  look  here,  David,"  replied  Tom,  with  a  great 
show  of  kindness  in  his  manner,  "  I'd  let  you  try  it  once, 
but  you'd  spoil  the  tone.  It's  taken  me  a  long  time  to 
get  a  good  tone  into  this  fiddle,  and  you'd  take  it  all 
out  the  very  first  whack.  As  soon  as  you  learn  to  get 
a  good  tone  out  of  it,  I'll  let  you  play  on  it.  Don't  you 
know  you'd  spoil  it,  if  I  was  to  let  you  try  it  now  ?"  he 
added,  suddenly  wheeling  with  tremendous  energy  upon 
his  timid  petitioner. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  would,  Tom,"  replied  David,  with  a 
voice  full  of  anguish. 

"  But  just  listen  to  me,"  said  Tom ;  and  taking  up 
the  violin,  he  rendered  the  opening  passage  of  "  O  Thou 
Fount  of  every  Blessing !"  Scarcely  had  he  finished 
when  a  customer  entered  the  shop,  and  he  hurried  to 
the  front,  leaving  the  violin  and  the  bow  on  the  chair 
that  he  had  quitted. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  the  little  figure  slipped 
noiselessly  from  its  perch,  and  hobbling  quickly  to  the 
chair  on  which  the  violin  lay,  stood  beside  it  in  silent 
love.  Touch  it  he  durst  not ;  but  his  sensitive,  delicate 
hands  passed  tremblingly  over  it,  and  his  eyes  dwelt 
upon  it  with  unspeakable  longing.  Then,  with  a  sigh, 
he  turned  away,  and  hastened  to  the  front  of  the  shop. 
Tom  had  already  dismissed  his  customer,  and  was 
standing  in  the  door,  looking  down  the  street  in  the 
direction  of  the  Kentucky  Hotel,  where  a  small  crowd 
had  collected  around  the  entrance  of  the  museum. 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  37 

As  David  stepped  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  it  was  the 
sight  of  this  crowd  that  recalled  him  to  a  new  sorrow. 

"  Tom,"  he  cried,  with  longing,  "  are  you  going  to  see 
the  wax  figures  ?" 

"  Of  course  I'm  going,"  he  replied,  carelessly.  "  We're 
all  going." 

"  When,  Tom  ?"  asked  David,  with  breathless  interest 

"  Whenever  we  want  to,  of  course,"  replied  Tom. 
"  I'm  not  going  just  once  ;  I'm  going  as  often  as  I  like." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  now,  Tom  ?  It's  so  hot — they 
might  melt." 

This  startling  view  of  the  case  was  not  without  its 
effect  on  Tom,  although  a  suggestion  from  such  a  source 
was  not  to  be  respected.  He  merely  threw  his  eyes 
up  towards  the  heavens  and  said,  sturdily :  "  You  ninny  ! 
they'll  not  melt.  Don't  you  see  it's  going  to  rain  and 
turn  cooler  ?" 

"I'll  bet  you  fd  not  wait  for  it  to  turn  cooler.  I'll 
bet  you  Pd  be  in  there  before  you  could  say  Jack  Rob- 
erson,  if /had  a  quarter,"  said  David,  with  resolution. 


V. 

All  that  long  afternoon  he  hung  in  feverish  excite 
ment  around  the  door  of  the  museum.  There  was 
scarce  a  travelling  show  in  Kentucky  in  those  days.  It 
was  not  strange  if  to  this  idler  of  the  streets,  in  whom 
imagination  was  all-powerful,  and  in  whose  heart  quiv 
ered  ungovernable  yearnings  for  the  heroic,  the  poetic, 
and  the  beautiful,  this  day  of  the  first  exhibition  of  wax 
figures  was  the  most  memorable  of  his  life. 

It  was  so  easy  for  everybody  to  go  in  who  wished  ;  so 


38  FLUTE   AND    VIOLIN. 

impossible  for  him.  Groups  of  gay  ladies  slipped  their 
silver  half-dollars  through  the  variegated  meshes  of  their 
silken  purses.  The  men  came  in  jolly  twos  and  threes, 
and  would  sometimes  draw  out  great  rolls  of  bills.  Now 
a  kind-faced  farmer  passed  in,  dropping  into  the  hands 
of  the  door-keeper  a  half-dollar  for  himself,  and  three 
quarters  for  three  sleek  negroes  that  followed  at  his 
heels;  and  now  a  manufacturer  with  a  couple  of  ap 
prentices  —  lads  of  David's  age  and  friends  of  his. 
Poor  little  fellow!  at  many  a  shop  of  the  town  he  had 
begged  to  be  taken  as  an  apprentice  himself,  but  no  one 
would  have  him  because  he  was  lame. 

And  now  the  people  were  beginning  to  pour  out,  and 
he  hovered  about  them,  hoping  in  this  way  to  get  some 
idea  of  what  was  going  on  inside.  Once,  with  the  cour 
age  of  despair,  he  seized  the  arm  of  a  lad  as  he  "came 
out. 

"  Oh,  Bobby,  tell  me  all  about  it !" 

But  Bobby  shook  him  off,  and  skipped  away  to  tell 
somebody  else  who  didn't  want  to  hear. 

After  a  while  two  sweet -faced  ladies  dressed  in 
mourning  appeared.  As  they  passed  down  the  street 
he  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  and  there  must  have 
been  something  in  his  face  to  attract  the  attention  of 
one  of  them,  for  she  paused,  and  in  the  gentlest  manner 
said : 

"  My  little  man,  how  did  you  like  the  wax  figures  and 
the  picture  ?" 

"Oh,  madam,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  filling,  ''I  have 
not  seen  them  !" 

"  But  you  will  see  them,  I  hope,"  she  said,  moving 
away,  but  bestowing  on  him  the  lingering  smile  of  be 
reft  motherhood. 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  39 

The  twilight  fell,  and  still  he  lingered,  until,  with  a 
sudden  remorseful  thought  of  his  mother,  he  turned 
away  and  passed  up  the  dark  street.  His  tongue  was 
parched,  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  a  numb 
pain  about  his  heart.  Far  up  the  street  he  paused  and 
looked  back.  A  lantern  had  been  swung  out  over  the 
entrance  of  the  museum,  and  the  people  were  still  pass 
ing  in. 

VI. 

A  happy  man  was  the  Reverend  James  Moore  the 
next  morning.  The  lottery  had  been  a  complete  suc 
cess,  and  he  would  henceforth  have  a  comfortable 
church,  in  which  the  better  to  save  the  souls  of  his  fel 
low-creatures.  The  leading  vestry-man  had  drawn  the 
capital  prize,  and  while  the  other  members  who  had 
drawn  blanks  were  not  exactly  satisfied,  on  the  whole 
the  result  seemed  as  good  as  providential.  As  he 
walked  down  town  at  an  early  hour,  he  was  conscious 
of  suffering  from  a  dangerous  elation  of  spirit ;  and 
more  than  once  his  silent  prayer  had  been  :  "  Lord,  let 
me  not  be  puffed  up  this  day !  Let  me  not  be  blinded 
with  happiness !  Keep  the  eyes  of  my  soul  clear,  that 
I  overlook  no  duty !  What  have  I,  unworthy  servant, 
done  that  I  should  be  so  fortunate  ?" 

Now  and  then,  as  he  passed  along,  a  church  member 
would  wring  his  hand  and  offer  congratulations.  After 
about  fifteen  years  of  a  more  or  less  stranded  condition 
a  magnificent  incoming  tide  of  prosperity  now  seemed 
to  lift  him  off  his  very  feet. 

From  wandering  rather  blindly  about  the  streets  for 
a  while,  he  started  for  the  new  church,  remembering 


40  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

that  he  had  an  engagement  with  a  committee  of  ladies, 
who  had  taken  in  charge  the  furnishing  of  it.  But  when 
he  reached  there,  no  one  had  arrived  but  the  widow 
Babcock.  She  was  very  beautiful ;  and  looking  at  wom 
ankind  from  behind  his  veil  of  unfamiliarity,  the  par 
son,  despite  his  logic,  had  always  felt  a  desire  to  lift  that 
/veil  when  standing  in  her  presence.  The  intoxication 
of  his  mood  was  not  now  lessened  by  coming  upon  her 
so  unexpectedly  alone. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Babcock,"  he  said,  offering  her  his 
hand  in  his  beautiful  manner,  "  it  seems  peculiarly  fit 
ting  that  you  should  be  the  first  of  the  ladies  to  reach 
the  spot ;  for  it  would  have  pained  me  to  think  you  less 
zealous  than  the  ethers.  The  vestry  needs  not  only 
your  taste  in  furniture,  but  the  influence  of  your  pres 
ence." 

The  widow  dropped  her  eyes,  the  gallantry  of  the 
speech  being  so  unusual.  "  I  came  early  on  purpose," 
she  replied,  in  a  voice  singularly  low  and  tremulous.  "  I 
wanted  to  see  you  alone.  Oh,  Mr.  Moore,  the  ladies  of 
this  town  owe  you  such  a  debt  of  gratitude  !  You  have 
been  such  a  comfort  to  those  who  are  sad,  such  a  sup 
port  to  those  who  needed  strengthening !  And  who  has 
needed  these  things  as  much  as  I  ?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  parson,  with  a  slight  look  of  appre 
hension,  had  put  his  back  against  the  wall,  as  was  apt 
to  be  his  way  when  talking  with  ladies. 

"  Who  has  needed  these  things  as  I  have  ?"  contin 
ued  the  widow,  taking  a  step  forward,  and  with  increas 
ing  agitation.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Moore,  I  should  be  an  ungrate 
ful  woman  if  I  did  not  mingle  my  congratulations  with 
the  others.  And  I  want  to  do  this  now  with  my  whole 
soul.  May  God  bless  you,  and  crown  the  labors  of 


C'THE  WIDOW  DROPPED  HER  EYES/' 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  43 

your  life  with  every  desire  of  your  heart !"  And  say 
ing  this,  the  widow  laid  the  soft  tips  of  one  hand  on 
one  of  the  parson's  shoulders,  and  raising  herself  slight 
ly  on  tiptoe,  kissed  him. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Babcock !"  cried  the  dismayed  logician, 
"  what  have  you  done  ?"  But  the  next  moment,  the  lo 
gician  giving  place  to  the  man,  he  grasped  one  of  her 
hands,  and  murmuring,  "  May  God  bless  you  for  that  T 
seized  his  hat,  and  hurried  out  into  the  street. 

The  most  careless  observer  might  have  been  in 
terested  in  watching  his  movements  as  he  walked 
away. 

He  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand,  forgetting  to  put  it 
on.  Several  persons  spoke  to  him  on  the  street,  but  he 
did  not  hear  them.  He  strode  a  block  or  two  in  one 
direction,  and  then  a  block  or  two  in  another. 

"  If  she  does  it  again,"  he  muttered  to  himself — "  if 
she  does  it  again,  I'll  marry  her ! .  .  .  Old  ?  .  .  .  I  could 
run  a  mile  in  a  minute  !" 

As  he  was  passing  the  music-store,  the  dealer  called 
out  to  him  : 

"  Come  in,  parson.     I've  got  a  present  for  you." 

"A — present — for — me?'  repeated  the  parson,  blank 
with  amazement.  In  his  life  the  little  music-dealer  had 
never  made  him  a  present. 

"  Yes,  a  present,"  repeated  the  fortunate  vestry-man, 
whose  dry  heart,  like  a  small  seed-pod,  the  wind  of  good- 
fortune  had  opened,  so  that  a  few  rattling  germs  of  gen 
erosity  dropped  out.  Opening  a  drawer  behind  his 
counter,  he  now  took  out  a  roll  of  music.  "  Here's  some 
new  music  for  your  flute,"  he  said.  "  Accept  it  with  my 
compliments." 

New  music  for  his  flute  !     The  parson  turned  it  over 


44  FLUTE    AND   VIOLIN. 

dreamily,  and  it  seemed  that  the  last  element  of  disor 
der  had  come  to  derange  his  faculties. 

"And  Mrs.  Leuba  sends  her  compliments,  and  would 
like  to  have  you  to  dinner,"  added  the  shopkeeper, 
looking  across  the  counter  with  some  amusement  at  the 
expression  of  the  parson,  who  now  appeared  as  much 
shocked  as  though  his  whole  nervous  system  had  been 
suddenly  put  in  connection  with  a  galvanic  battery  of 
politeness. 

It  was  a  very  gay  dinner,  having  been  gotten  up  to 
celebrate  the  drawing  of  the  prize.  The  entire  company 
were  to  go  in  the  afternoon  to  see  the  waxworks,  and 
some  of  the  ladies  wore  especial  toilets,  with  a  view  to 
having  their  profiles  taken. 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  the  waxworks,  Mr.  Moore  ?" 
inquired  a  spinster  roguishly,  wiping  a  drop  of  soup 
from  her  underlip. 

The  unusual  dinner,  the  merriment,  the  sense  of  many 
ladies  present,  mellowed  the  parson  like  old  wine. 

"No,  madam,"  he  replied,  giddily;  "but  I  shall  go 
this  very  afternoon.  I  find  it  impossible  any  longer  to 
deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  beholding  the  great  Amer 
ican  Coquette  and  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  I  must  take 
my  black  sheep,"  he  continued,  with  expanding  warmth. 
"  I  must  drive  my  entire  flock  of  soiled  lambs  into  the 
favored  and  refining  presence  of  Miss  Julia  Granby." 

Keeping  to  this  resolution,  as  soon  as  dinner  was 
over  he  made  his  excuses  to  the  company,  and  set  off 
to  collect  a  certain  class  of  boys  which  he  had  scraped 
together  by  hook  and  crook  from  the  by-ways  of  the 
town,  and  about  an  hour  later  he  might  have  been  seen 
driving  them  before  him  towards  the  entrance  of  the 
museum.  There  he  shouldered  his  way  cheerfully  up 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  45 

to  the  door,  and  shoved  each  of  the  lads  good-naturedly 
in,  finally  passing  in  himself,  with  a  general  glance  at 
the  by-standers,  as  if  to  say,  "  Was  there  ever  another 
man  as  happy  in  this  world  ?" 

But  he  soon  came  out,  leaving  his  wild  lambs  to 
browse  at  will  in  those  fresh  pastures,  and  took  his  way 
up  street  homeward.  He  seemed  to  be  under  some  ne 
cessity  of  shaking  them  off  in  order  to  enjoy  the  soli 
tude  of  his  thoughts. 

"  If  she  does  it  again  !  ...  If  she  does  it  again  !  .  .  . 
Wheel  whee!  whee ! — wheel  wheel  wheel"  and  he  be 
gan  to  whistle  for  his  flute  with  a  nameless  longing. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  the  two  women  heard  him 
playing  the  reel,  and  watched  him  perform  certain  later 
incredible  evolutions.  For  whether  one  event,  or  all 
events  combined,  had  betrayed  him  into  this  outbreak, 
henceforth  he  was  quite  beside  himself. 

Is  it  possible  that  on  this  day  the  Reverend  James 
Moore  had  driven  the  ancient,  rusty,  creaky  chariot  of 
his  faculties  too  near  the  sun  of  love? 


VII. 

A  sad  day  it  had  been  meantime  for  the  poor  lad. 

He  had  gotten  up  in  the  morning  listless  and  dull 
and  sick  at  the  sight  of  his  breakfast.  But  he  had 
feigned  to  be  quite  well  that  he  might  have  permission 
to  set  off  down-town.  There  was  no  chance  of  his  be 
ing  able  to  get  into  the  museum,  but  he  was  drawn 
irresistibly  thither  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  standing 
around  and  watching  the  people,  and  hoping  that  some 
thing —  something  would  turn  up.  He  was  still  there 


46 


FLUTE   AND    VIOLIN. 


when  his  dinner -hour  came,  but  he  never  thought  of 
this.  Once,  when  the  door-keeper  was  at  leisure,  he  had 
hobbled  up  and  said  to  him,  with  a  desperate  effort  to 
smile,  "Sir,  if  I  were  rich,  I'd  live  ia  your  museum  for 
about  five  years." 

But  the  door-keeper  had  pushed  him  rudely  back, 
telling  him  to  be  off  and  not  obstruct  the  sidewalk. 

He  was  still  standing  near  the  entrance 
when  the  parson  came  down  the  street  driv 
ing  his  flock  of  boys.  Ah, 
if  he  had  only  joined  that 


class,  as  time 
after  time  he 
had  been  asked  to  do  ! 
All  at  once  his  face  lit 
up  with  a  fortunate  in 
spiration,  and  pushing 
his  way  to  the  very 
side  of  the  door-keeper,  he  placed  himself  there  that 
the  parson  might  see  him  and  take  him  with  the  oth- 


A   BOY  S   VIOLIN.  47 

ers ;  for  had  he  not  said  that  he  must  be  sure  to  go  ? 
But  when  the  parson  came  up,  this  purpose  had  failed 
him,  and  he  had  apparently  shrunk  to  half  his  size  be 
hind  the  bulk  of  the  door-keeper,  fearing  most  of  all 
things  that  the  parson  would  discover  him  and  know 
why  he  was  there. 

He  was  still  lingering  outside  when  the  parson  reap 
peared  and  started  homeward ;  and  he  sat  down  and 
watched  him  out  of  sight.  He  seemed  cruelly  hurt,  and 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Pd  have  taken  him  in  the  very  first  one,"  he  said, 
choking  down  a  sob  ;  and  then,  as  if  he  felt  this  to 
be  unjust,  he  murmured  over  and  over :  "  Maybe  he 
forgot  me;  maybe  he  didn't  mean  it;  maybe  he  for 
got  me." 

Perhaps  an  hour  later,  slowly  and  with  many  pauses, 
he  drew  near  the  door  of  the  parson's  home.  There  he 
lifted  his  hand  three  times  before  he  could  knock. 

"  The  parson's  not  at  home,"  the  widow  Spurlock  had 
called  sharply  down  to  him. 

With  this  the  last  hope  had  died  out  of  his  bosom; 
for  having  dwelt  long  on  the  parson's  kindness  to  him 
— upon  all  the  parson's  tireless  efforts  to  befriend  him — 
he  had  summoned  the  courage  at  last  to  go  and  ask 
him  to  lend  him  a  quarter. 

With  little  thought  of  whither  he  went,  he  now  turned 
back  down-town,  but  some  time  later  he  was  still  stand 
ing  at  the  entrance  of  the  museum. 

He  looked  up  the  street  again.  All  the  Leubas  were 
coming,  Tom  walking,  with  a  very  haughty  air,  a  few 
feet  ahead. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  in  ?"  he  said,  loudly,  walking  up 
to  David  and  jingling  the  silver  in  his  pockets.  "What 


48  FLUTE   AND    VIOLIN. 

are  you  standing  out  here  for  ?  If  you  want  to  go  in, 
why  don't  you  go  in  ?" 

"  Oh,  Tom !"  cried  David,  in  a  whisper  of  eager  con 
fidence,  his  utterance  choked  with  a  sob,  "  I  haven't  got 
any  money." 

"  I'd  hate  to  be  as  poor  as  you  are,"  said  Tom,  con 
temptuously.  "I'm  going  this  evening,  and  to-night, 
and  as  often  as  I  want,"  and  he  turned  gayly  away  to 
join  the  others. 

He  was  left  alone  again,  and  his  cup  of  bitterness, 
which  had  been  filling  drop  by  drop,  now  ran  over. 

Several  groups  came  up  just  at  that  moment.  There 
was  a  pressure  and  a  jostling  of  the  throng.  As  Mr. 
Leuba,  who  had  made  his  way  up  to  the  door-keeper, 
drew  a  handful  of  silver  from  his  pocket,  some  one  ac 
cidentally  struck  his  elbow,  and  several  pieces  fell  to 
the  pavement.  Then  there  was  laughter  and  a  scram 
bling  as  these  were  picked  up  and  returned.  But  out 
through  the  legs  of  the  crowd  one  bright  silver  quarter 
rolled  unseen  down  the  sloping  sidewalk  towards  the 
spot  where  David  was  standing. 

It  was  all  done  in  an  instant.  He  saw  it  coming; 
the  little  crutch  was  set  forward  a  pace,  the  little  body 
was  swung  silently  forward,  and  as  the  quarter  fell  over 
on  its  shining  side,  the  dirty  sole  of  a  brown  foot  cov 
ered  it. 

The  next  minute,  with  a  sense  of  triumph  and  bound 
ing  joy,  the  poverty-tortured,  friendless  little  thief  had 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  museum,  and  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  Redeemer  of  the  world;  for  the  picture 
was  so  hung  as  to  catch  the  eye  upon  entering,  and  it 
arrested  his  quick,  roving  glance  and  held  it  in  awe- 
stricken  fascination.  Unconscious  of  his  own  move- 


BEFORE   THE   PICTURE. 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  51 

ments,  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  until  he  stood  a  few 
feet  in  front  of  the  arc  of  spectators,  with  his  breathing 
all  but  suspended,  and  one  hand  crushing  the  old  b4ue 
cloth  cap  against  his  naked  bosom. 

It  was  a  strange  meeting.  The  large  rude  painting 
possessed  no  claim  to  art.  But  to  him  it  was  an  over 
whelming  revelation,  for  he  had  never  seen  any  pictures, 
and  he  was  gifted  with  an  untutored  love  of  painting. 
Over  him,  therefore,  it  exercised  an  inthralling  influ 
ence,  and  it  was  as  though  he  stood  in  the  visible  pres 
ence  of  One  whom  he  knew  that  the  parson  preached 
of  and  his  mother  worshipped. 

Forgetful  of  his  surroundings,  long  he  stood  and 
gazed.  Whether  it  may  have  been  the  thought  of  the 
stolen  quarter  that  brought  him  to  himself,  at  length  he 
drew  a  deep  breath,  and  looked  quickly  around  with  a 
frightened  air.  From  across  the  room  he  saw  Mr.  Leu- 
ba  watching  him  gravely,  as  it  seemed  to  his  guilty  con 
science,  with  fearful  sternness.  A  burning  flush  dyed 
his  face,  and  he  shrank  back,  concealing  himself  among 
the  crowd.  The  next  moment,  without  ever  having  seen 
or  so  much  as  thought  of  anything  else  in  the  museum, 
he  slipped  out  into  the  street. 

There  the  eyes  of  everybody  seemed  turned  upon 
him.  Where  should  he  go  ?  Not  home.  Not  to  Mr. 
Leuba's  music -store.  No;  he  could  never  look  into 
Mr.  Leuba's  face  again.  And  Tom  ?  He  could  hear 
Tom  crying  out,  wherever  he  should  meet  him,  "  You 
stole  a  quarter  from  father." 

In  utter  terror  and  shame,  he  hurried  away  out  to  the 
southern  end  of  the  town,  where  there  was  an  aban 
doned  rope-walk. 

It  was  a  neglected  place,  damp  and  unhealthy.     In 


52  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

the  farthest  corner  of  it  he  lay  down  and  hid  himself  in 
a  clump  of  iron -weeds.  Slowly  the  moments  dragged 
themselves  along.  Of  what  was  he  thinking?  Of  his 
mother  ?  Of  the  parson  ?  Of  the  violin  that  would 
now  never  be  his  ?  Of  that  wonderful  sorrowful  face 
which  he  had  seen  in  the  painting  ?  The  few  noises  of 
the  little  town  grew  very  faint,  the  droning  of  the  bum 
blebee  on  the  purple  tufts  of  the  weed  overhead  very 
loud,  and  louder  still  the  beating  of  his  heart  against 
the  green  grass  as  he  lay  on  his  side,  with  his  head  on 
his  blue  cap  and  his  cheek  in  his  hand.  And  then  he 
fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  he  started  up  bewildered.  The  sun 
had  set,  and  the  heavy  dews  of  twilight  were  falling.  A 
chill  ran  through  him ;  and  then  the  recollection  of 
what  had  happened  came  over  him  with  a  feeling  of 
desolation.  When  it  was  quite  dark  he  left  his  hiding- 
place  and  started  back  up-town. 

He  could  reach  home  in  several  ways,  but  a  certain 
fear  drew  him  into  the  street  which  led  past  the  music- 
store.  If  he  could  only  see  Mr.  Leuba,  he  felt  sure 
that  he  could  tell  by  the  expression  of  his  face  whether 
he  had  missed  the  quarter.  At  some  distance  off  he 
saw  by  the  light  of  the  windows  Mr.  Leuba  standing  in 
front  of  his  shop  talking  to  a  group  of  men.  Noise 
lessly  he  drew  near,  noiselessly  he  was  passing  without 
the  courage  to  look  up. 

"  Stop,  David.  Come  in  here  a  moment.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

As  Mr.  Leuba  spoke,  he  apologized  to  the  gentlemen 
for  leaving,  and  turned  back  into  the  rear  of  the  shop. 
Faint,  and  trembling  so  that  he  could  scarcely  stand, 
his  face  of  a  deadly  whiteness,  the  boy  followed. 


A    BOYS   VIOLIN.  53 

"  David,"  said  Mr.  Leuba — in  his  whole  life  he  had 
never  spoken  so  kindly;  perhaps  his  heart  had  been 
touched  by  some. belated  feeling,  as  he  had  studied  the 
boy's  face  before  the  picture  in  the  museum,  and  cer 
tainly  it  had  been  singularly  opened  by  his  good-fort 
une — "  David,"  he  said,  "  I  promised  when  I  got  rich 
enough  I'd  give  Tom  a  new  violin,  and  give  you  his 
old  one.  Well,  I  gave  him  a  new  one  to-day ;  so  here's 
yours,"  and  going  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  he  took 
up  the  box,  brought  it  back,  and  would  have  laid  it  on 
the  boy's  arm,  only  there  was  no  arm  extended  to  re 
ceive  it. 

"Take  it!     It's  yours  !" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Leuba  !" 

It  was  all  he  could  say.  He  had  expected  to  be 
charged  with  stealing  the  quarter,  and  instead  there 
was  held  out  to  him  the  one  treasure  in  the  world — 
the  violin  of  which  he  had  dreamed  so  long,  for  which 
he  had  served  so  faithfully. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Leuba  !" 

There  was  a  pitiful  note  in  the  cry,  but  the  dealer 
was  not  the  man  to  hear  it,  or  to  notice  the  look  of  an 
gelic  contrition  on  the  upturned  face.  He  merely  took 
the  lad's  arm,  bent  it  around  the  violin,  patted  the  rag 
ged  cap,  and  said,  a  little  impatiently  : 

"  Come,  come !  they're  waiting  for  me  at  the  door. 
To-morrow  you  can  come  down  and  run  some  more 
errands  for  me,"  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  front  of  the 
shop  and  resumed  his  conversation. 

Slowly  along  the  dark  street  the  lad  toiled  homeward 
with  his  treasure.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have 
sat  down  on  the  first  curb-stone,  opened  the  box,  and 
in  ecstatic  joy  have  lifted  out  that  peerless  instrument ; 


54  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

or  he  would  have  sped  home  with  it  to  his  mother, 
flying  along  on  his  one  crutch  as  if  on  the  winds  of 
heaven.  But  now  he  could  not  look  at  it,  and  some 
thing  clogged  his  gait  so  that  he  loitered  and  faltered 
and  sometimes  stood  still  irresolute. 

But  at  last  he  approached  the  log-cabin  which  was 
his  home.  A  rude  fence  enclosed  the  yard,  and  in 
side  this  fence  there  grew  a  hedge  of  lilacs.  When 
he  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the  gate  he  paused,  and 
did  what  he  had  never  done  before — he  put  his  face 
close  to  the  panels  of  the  fence,  and  with  a  look  of 
guilt  and  sorrow  peeped  through  the  lilacs  at  the  face 
of  his  mother,  who  was  sitting  in  the  light  of  the  open 
door-way. 

She  was  thinking  of  him.  He  knew  that  by  the 
patient  sweetness  of  her  smile.  All  the  heart  went  out 
of  him  at  the  sight,  and  hurrying  forward,  he  put  the 
violin  down  at  her  feet,  and  threw  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  and  buried  his  head  on  her  bosom. 


VIII. 

After  he  had  made  his  confession,  a  restless  and 
feverish  night  he  had  of  it,  often  springing  up  from  his 
troubled  dreams  and  calling  to  her  in  the  darkness. 
But  the  next  morning  he  insisted  upon  getting  up  for  a 
while. 

Towards  the  afternoon  he  grew  worse  again,  and 
took  to  his  bed,  the  yellow  head  tossing  to  and  fro, 
the  eyes  bright  and  restless,  and  his  face  burning.  At 
length  he  looked  up  and  said  to  his  mother,  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  forms  a  difficult  resolution :  "  Send 


A  BOY'S -VIOLIN. 


55 


for  the  parson.     Tell  him  I  am  sick  and  want  to  see 
him." 

It  was  this  summons  that  the  widow  Spurlock  had 
delivered  on   the   Sunday  afternoon  when  the  parson 


had  quitted  the  house  with  such  a  cry  of  distress.  He 
had  not  so  much  as  thought  of  the  boy  since  the  Friday 
morning  previous. 

"  How  is  it  possible,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  hurried 


56  FLUTE    AND    VIOLIN. 

on— "how  is   it  possible  that   I  could  have   forgotten 

him  l" 

The  boy's  mother  met  him  outside  the  house  and 
drew  him  into  an  adjoining  room,  silently,  for  her  tears 
were  falling.  He  sank  into  the  first  chair. 

"  Is  he  so  ill  ?"  he  asked,  under  his  trembling  breath. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  going  to  be  very  ill.  And  to  see 
him  in  so  much  trouble — " 

"What  is  the  matter?  In  God's  name,  has  any 
thing  happened  to  him  ?" 

She  turned  her  face  away  to  hide  her  grief.  "  He 
said  he  would  tell  you  himself.  Oh,  if  I've  been  too 
hard  with  him  !  But  I  did  it  for  the  best.  I  didn't 
know  until  the  doctor  came  that  he  was  going  to  be  ill, 
or  I  would  have  waited.  Do  anything  you  can  to  quiet 
him — anything  he  should  ask  you  to  do,"  she  implored, 
and  pointed  towards  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  the 
boy  lay. 

Conscience-stricken  and  speechless,  the  parson  open 
ed  it  and  entered. 

The  small  white  bed  stood  against  the  wall  beneath 
an  open  window,  and  one  bright- headed  sunflower, 
growing  against  the  house  outside,  leaned  in  and  fixed 
its  kind  face  anxiously  upon  the  sufferer's. 

The  figure  of  the  boy  was  stretched  along  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  his  cheek  on  one  hand  and  his  eyes  turned 
steadfastly  towards  the  middle  of  the  room,  where,  on  a 
table,  the  violin  lay  exposed  to  view 

He  looked  quickly  towards  the  door  as  the  parson 
entered,  and  an  expression  of  relief  passed  over  his 
face. 

"  Why,  David,"  said  the  parson,  chidingly,  and  cross 
ing  to  the  bed  with  a  bright  smile.  "  Sick  ?  This  will 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  57 

never  do ;"  and  he  sat  down,  imprisoning  one  of  the 
burning  palms  in  his  own. 

The  boy  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him  searching- 
ly,  as  though  needing  to  lay  aside  masks  and  disguises 
and  penetrate  at  once  to  the  bottom  truth.  Then  he 
asked,  "  Are  you  mad  at  me  ?" 

"  My  poor  boy !"  said  the  parson,  his  lips  trembling 
a  little  as  he  tightened  his  pressure — "my  poor  boy! 
why  should  /be  mad  at  you  .?" 

"  You  never  could  do  anything  with  me." 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  said  the  parson,  soothingly, 
but  adding,  with  bitterness,  "  it  was  all  my  fault — all 
my  fault." 

"  It  wasn't  your  fault,"  said  the  boy.    "  It  was  mine." 

A  change  had  come  over  him  in  his  treatment  of  the 
parson.  Shyness  had  disappeared,  as  is  apt  to  be  the 
case  with  the  sick. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  he  added,  confiden 
tially. 

"  Anything — anything  !     Ask  me  anything  !" 

"  Do  you  remember  the  wax  figures  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember  them  very  well,"  said  the  par 
son,  quickly,  uneasily. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  'em,  and  I  didn't  have  any  money, 
and  I  stole  a  quarter  from  Mr.  Leuba." 

Despite  himself  a  cry  escaped  the  parson's  iips,  and 
dropping  the  boy's  hand,  he  started  from  his  chair  and 
walked  rapidly  to  and  fro  across  the  room,  with  the 
fangs  of  remorse  fixed  deep  in  his  conscience. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  ?"  he  asked  at  length, 
in  a  tone  of  helpless  entreaty.  "  Why  didn't  you  come 
to  me  ?  Oh,  if  you  had  only  come  to  me  !" 

"  I  did  come  to  you,"  replied  the  boy. 


eg  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

"When?"  asked  the  parson,  coming  back  to  the  bed 
side. 

"  About  three  o'clock  yesterday." 

About  three  o'clock  yesterday !  And  what  was  he 
doing  at  that  time  ?  He  bent  his  head  over  to  his  very 
knees,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands. 


"  But  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  it  ?  Why  didn't 
you  come  in  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Spurlock  told  me  you  were  at  work  on  a  ser 
mon." 

"  God  forgive  me !"  murmured  the  parson,  with  a 
groan. 


A    BOY  S    VIOLIN.  59 

"  I  thought  you'd  lend  me  a  quarter,"  said  the  boy, 
simply.  "You  took  the  other  boys,  and  you  told  me  / 
must  be  certain  to  go.  I  thought  you'd  lend  me  a 
quarter  till  I  could  pay  you  back." 

"  Oh,  David !"  cried  the  parson,  getting  down  on  his 
knees  by  the  bedside,  and  putting  his  arms  around  the 
boy's  neck,  "I  would  have  lent  you — I  would  have  given 
you — anything  I  have  in  this  poor  world !" 

The  boy  threw  his  arms  around  the  parson's  neck 
and  clasped  him  close.  "  Forgive  me  !" 

"Oh,  boy!  boy!  can  you  forgive  me?"  Sobs  stifled 
the  parson's  utterance,  and  he  went  to  a  window  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room. 

When  he  turned  his  face  inward  again,  he  saw  the 
boy's  gaze  fixed  once  more  intently  upon  the  violin. 

"  There's  something  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,"  he 
said.  "  Mr.  Leuba  gave  me  a  violin  last  night,  and 
mamma  says  I  ought  to  sell  it  and  pay  him  back. 
Mamma  says  it  will  be  a  good  lesson  for  me."  The 
words  seemed  wrung  from  his  heart's  core.  "  I  thought 
I'd  ask  you  to  sell  it  for  me.  The  doctor  says  I  may 
be  sick  a  long  time,  and  it  worries  me."  He  began  to 
grow  excited,  and  tossed  from  side  to  side. 

"  Don't  worry,"  said  the  parson,  "  I'll  sell  it  for  you." 

The  boy  looked  at  the  violin  again.  To  him  it  was 
priceless,  and  his  eyes  grew  heavy  with  love  for  it. 
Then  he  said,  cautiously  :  "  I  thought  you'd  get  a  good 
price  for  it.  I  don't  think  I  could  take  less  than  a  hun 
dred  dollars.  It's  worth  more  than  that,  but  if  I  have 
to  sell  it,  I  don't  think  I  could  take  less  than  a  hun 
dred  dollars,"  and  he  fixed  his  burning  eyes  on  the 
parson's. 

"  Don't  worry  !     I'll  sell  it  for  you.     Oh  yes,  you  can 


Go  FLUTE   AND   VIOLIN. 

easily  get  a  hundred  dollars  for  it.  I'll  bring  you  a 
hundred  dollars  for  it  by  to-morrow  morning." 

As  the  parson  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  room, 
with  the  violin  under  his  arm,  he  paused  with  his  hand 
on  the  latch,  an  anxious  look  gathering  in  his  face 
Then  he  came  back,  laid  the  violin  on  the  table,  and 
going  to  the  bedside,  took  the  boy's  hands  in  both  of 
his  own. 

"  David,"  said  the  moral  philosopher,  wrestling  in  his 
consciousness  with  the  problem  of  evil — "  David,  was  it 
the  face  of  the  Saviour  that  you  wished  to  see  ?  Was 
it  this  that  tempted  you  to — "  and  he  bent  over  the 
boy  breathless. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  the  Sleeping  Beauty." 

The  parson  turned  away  with  a  sigh  of  acute  disap 
pointment. 

It  was  on  this  night  that  he  was  seen  to  enter  his 
room  with  a  boy's  violin  under  his  arm,  and  later  to 
hang  it,  and  hang  his  beloved  flute,  tied  with  a  blue 
ribbon,  above  the  meagre  top  shelf  of  books — Fuller's 
Gospel,  Petrarch,  Volney's  Ruins,  Zollicoffer's  Sermons, 
and  the  Horrors  of  San  Domingo.  After  that  he  re 
mained  motionless  at  his  table,  with  his  head  bowed  on 
his  folded  arms,  until  the  candle  went  out,  leaving  him 
in  inner  and  outer  darkness.  Moralist,  logician,  phi 
losopher,  he  studied  the  transgression,  laying  it  at  last 
solely  to  his  own  charge. 

At  daybreak  he  stood  outside  the  house  with  the 
physician  who  had  been  with  the  boy  during  the  night. 
"  Will  he  die  ?"  he  asked. 

The  physician  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  forefin 
ger.  "  The  chances  are  against  him.  The  case  has 
peculiar  complications.  All  night  it  has  been  nothing 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN.  6 1 

but  the  wax  figures  and  the  stolen  quarter  and  the  vio 
lin.  His  mother  has  tried  to  persuade  him  not  to  sell 
it.  But  he  won't  bear  the  sight  of  it  now,  although  he 
is  wild  at  the  thought  of  selling  it." 

"David,"  said  the  parson,  kneeling  by  the  bedside, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  pitiful  enough  to  have  recalled 
a  soul  from  the  other  world — "  David,  here's  the  money 
for  the  violin ;  here's  the  hundred  dollars,"  and  he 
pressed  it  into  one  of  the  boy's  palms.  The  hand 
closed  upon  it,  but  there  was  no  recognition.  It  was 
half  a  year's  salary. 

The  first  sermon  that  the  parson  preached  in  the 
new  church  was  on  the  Sunday  after  the  boy's  death. 
It  was  expected  that  he  would  rise  to  the  occasion  and 
surpass  himself,  which,  indeed,  he  did,  drawing  tears 
even  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew  not  that  they 
could  shed  them,  and  all  through  making  the  greatest 
effort  to  keep  back  his  own.  The  subject  of  the  ser 
mon  was  "The  Temptations  of  the  Poor."  The  ser 
mon  of  the  following  fortnight  was  on  the  "  Besetting 
Sin,''  the  drift  of  it  going  to  show  that  the  besetting  sin 
may  be  the  one  pure  and  exquisite  pleasure  of  life,  in 
volving  only  the  exercise  of  the  loftiest  faculty.  And 
this  was  followed  by  a  third  sermon  on  "  The  Kiss  that 
Betrayeth,"  in  which  the  parson  ransacked  history  for 
illustrations  to  show  that  every  species  of  man — ancient, 
mediaeval,  and  modern — had  been  betrayed  in  this  way. 
During  the  delivery  of  this  sermon  the  parson  looked 
so  cold  and  even  severe  that  it  was  not  understood  why 
the  emotions  of  any  one  should  have  been  touched,  or 
why  the  widow  Babcock  should  have  lowered  her  veil 
and  wept  bitterly. 

And  thus  being  ever  the  more  loved  and  revered  as 


62  FLUTE    AND   VIOLIN. 

he  grew  ever  the  more  lovable  and  saint-like,  he  passed 
onward  to  the  close.  But  not  until  the  end  came  did 
he  once  stretch  forth  a  hand  to  touch  his  flute ;  and 
it  was  only  in  imagination  then  that  he  grasped  it.  to 
sound  the  final  roll-call  of  his  wandering  faculties,  and 
to  blow  a  last  good-night  to  his  tired  spirit. 


KING   SOLOMON   OF   KENTUCKYC 


iking  Solomon  of  ifcentucfcs. 


i. 

IT  had  been  a  year  of  strange  disturbances — a  deso 
lating  drought,  a  hurly-burly  of  destructive  tempests,  kill 
ing  frosts  in  the  tender  valleys,  mortal  fevers  in  the  ten 
der  homes.  Now  came  tidings  that  all  day  the  wail  of 
myriads  of  locusts  was  heard  in  the  green  woods  of  Vir 
ginia  and  Tennessee ;  now  that  Lake  Erie  was  blocked 
with  ice  on  the  very  verge  of  summer,  so  that  in  the 
Niagara  new  rocks  and  islands  showed  their  startling 
faces.  In  the  Blue-glass  Region  of  Kentucky  countless 
caterpillars  were  crawling  over  the  ripening  apple  or 
chards  and  leaving  the  trees  as  stark  as  when  tossed  in 
the  thin  air  of  bitter  February  days. 

Then,  flying  low  and  heavily  through  drought  and 
tempest  and  frost  and  plague,  like  the  royal  presence 
of  disaster,  that  had  been  but  heralded  by  its  mourn 
ful  train,  came  nearer  and  nearer  the  dark  angel  of  the 
pestilence. 

M.  Xaupi  had  given  a  great  ball  only  the  night  before 
in  the  dancing-rooms  over  the  confectionery  of  M.  Gi- 
ron — that  M.  Giron  who  made  the  tall  pyramids  of  me 
ringues  and  macaroons  for  wedding -suppers,  and  spun 
around  them  a  cloud  of  candied  webbing  as  white  and 
misty  as  the  veil  of  the  bride.  It  was  the  opening  co 
tillon  party  of  the  summer.  The  men  came  in  blue 
5 


66  KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 

cloth  coats  with  brass  buttons,  buff  waistcoats,  and 
laced  and  ruffled  shirts ;  the  ladies  came  in  white  sat 
ins  with  ethereal  silk  overdresses,  embroidered  in  the 
figure  of  a  gold  beetle  or  an  oak  leaf  of  green.  The 
walls  of  the  ball-room  were  painted  to  represent  land 
scapes  of  blooming  orange-trees,  set  here  and  there  in 
clustering  tubs ;  and  the  chandeliers  and  sconces  were 
lighted  with  innumerable  wax-candles,  yellow  and  green 
and  rose. 

Only  the  day  before,  also,  Clatterbuck  had  opened 
for  the  summer  a  new  villa  -  house,  six  miles  out  in  the 
country,  with  a  dancing- pavilion  in  a  grove  of  maples 
and  oaks,  a  pleasure-boat  on  a  sheet  of  crystal  water, 
and  a  cellar  stocked  with  old  sherry,  Sauterne,  and 
Chateau  Margaux  wines,  with  anisette,  "  Perfect  Love," 
and  Guigholet  cordials. 

Down  on  Water  Street,  near  where  now  stands  a  rail 
way  station,  Hugh  Lonney,  urging  that  the  fear  of  chol 
era  was  not  the  only  incentive  to  cleanliness,  had  just 
fitted  up  a  sumptuous  bath-house,  where  cold  and  shower 
baths  might  be  had  at  twelve  and  a  half  cents  each,  or 
hot  ones  at  three  for  half  a  dollar 

Yes,  the  summer  of  1833  was  at  hand,  and  there  must 
be  new  pleasures,  new  luxuries ;  for  Lexington  was  the 
Athens  of  the  West  and  the  Kentucky  Birmingham. 

Old  Peter  Leuba  felt  the  truth  of  this,  as  he  stepped 
smiling  out  of  his  little  music-store  on  Main  Street,  and, 
rubbing  his  hands  briskly  together,  surveyed  once  more 
his  newly -arranged  windows,  in  which  were  displayed 
gold  and  silver  epaulets,  bottles  of  Jamaica  rum,  garden 
seeds  from  Philadelphia,  drums  and  guitars  and  harps. 
Dewees  &  Grant  felt  it  in  their  drug -store  on  Cheap- 
side,  as  they  sent  off  a  large  order  for  calomel  and  su- 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  67 

perior  Maccoboy,  rappee,  and  Lancaster  snuff.  Bluff 
little  Daukins  Tegway  felt  it,  as  he  hurried  on  the 
morning  of  that  day  to  the  office  of  the  Observer  and 
Reporter,  and  advertised  that  he  would  willingly  ex 
change  his  beautiful  assortment  of  painted  muslins  and 
Dunstable  bonnets  for  flax  and  feathers.  On  the  thresh 
old  he  met  a  florid  farmer,  who  had  just  offered  ten  dol 
lars'  reward  for  a  likely  runaway  boy  with  a  long  fresh 
scar  across  his  face;  and  to-morrow  the  paper  would 
contain  one  more  of  those  tragical  little  cuts,  represent 
ing  an  African  slave  scampering  away  at  the  top  of  his 
speed,  with  a  stick  swung  across  his  shoulder  and  a  bun 
dle  dangling  down  his  back.  In  front  of  Postlethwaite's 
Tavern,  where  now  stands  the  Phcenix  Hotel,  a  com 
pany  of  idlers,  leaning  back  in  Windsor  chairs  and 
planting  their  feet  against  the  opposite  wall  on  a  level 
with  their  heads,  smoked  and  chewed  and  yawned,  as 
they  discussed  the  administration  of  Jackson  and  ar 
ranged  for  the  coming  of  Daniel  Webster  in  June,  when 
they  would  give  him  a  great  barbecue,  and  roast  in  his 
honor  a  buffalo  bull  taken  from  the  herd  emparked  near 
Ashland.  They  hailed  a  passing  merchant,  who,  how 
ever,  would  hear  nothing  of  the  bull,  but  fell  to  prais 
ing  his  Rocky  Mountain  beaver  and  Goose  Creek  salt ; 
and  another,  who  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Daniel  Webster, 
and  invited  them  to  drop  in  and  examine  his  choice 
essences  of  peppermint,  bergamot,  and  lavender. 

But  of  all  the  scenes  that  might  have  been  observed 
in  Lexington  on  that  day,  the  most  remarkable  occurred 
in  front  of  the  old  court-house  at  the  hour  of  high  noon. 
On  the  mellow  stroke  of  the  clock  in  the  steeple  above 
the  sheriff  stepped  briskly  forth,  closely  followed  by  a 
man  of  powerful  frame,  whom  he  commanded  to  station 


68  KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

himself  on  the  pavement  several  feet  off.  A  crowd  of 
men  and  boys  had  already  collected  in  anticipation,  and 
others  came  quickly  up  as  the  clear  voice  of  the  sheriff 
was  heard  across  the  open  public  square  and  old  mar 
ket-place. 

He  stood  on  the  topmost  of  the  court-house  steps, 
and  for  a  moment  looked  down  on  the  crowd  with  the 
usual  air  of  official  severity. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  then  cried  out  sharply,  "by  an  or- 
clah  of  the  cou't  I  now  offah  this  man  at  public  sale  to 
the  highes'  biddah.  He  is  able-bodied  but  lazy,  with 
out  visible  property  or  means  of  suppoht,  an'  of  disso 
lute  habits.  He  is  therefoh  adjudged  guilty  of  high 
misdemeanahs,  an'  is  to  be  sole  into  labah  foh  a  twelve 
month.  How  much,  then,  am  I  offahed  foh  the  vagrant  ? 
How  much  am  I  offahed  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon  ?" 

Nothing  was  offered  for  old  King  Solomon.  The 
spectators  formed  themselves  into  a  ring  around  the 
big  vagrant  and  settled  down  to  enjoy  the  performance. 

"  Staht  'im,  somebody." 

Somebody  started  a  laugh,  which  rippled  around  the 
circle. 

The  sheriff  looked  on  with  an  expression  of  unre- 
laxed  severity,  but  catching  the  eye  of  an  acquaintance 
on  the  outskirts,  he  exchanged  a  lightning  wink  of  se 
cret  appreciation.  Then  he  lifted  off  his  tight  beaver 
hat,  wiped  out  of  his  eyes  a  little  shower  of  perspiration 
which  rolled  suddenly  down  from  above,  and  warmed 
a  degree  to  his  theme. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  more  suasively,  "  it's  too 
hot  to  stan'  heah  all  day.  Make  me  an  offah  !  You  all 
know  ole  King  Sol'mon ;  don't  wait  to  be  interduced. 
How  much,  then,  to  staht  'im?  Say  fifty  dollahs ! 


KING    SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  69 

Twenty-five  !  Fifteen  1  Ten  !  Why,  gentlemen  !  Not  fen 
dollahs?  Remembah  this  is  the  Blue-grass  Region  of 
Kentucky — the  land  of  Boone  an'  Kenton,  the  home  of 
Henry  Clay !"  he  added,  in  an  oratorical  crescendo. 

"  He  ain't  wuth  his  victuals,"  said  an  oily  little  tav 
ern-keeper,  folding  his  arms  restfully  over  his  own  stom 
ach  and  cocking  up  one  piggish  eye  into  his  neighbor's 
face.  "  He  ain't  wuth  his  'taters." 

"  Buy  'im  foh  'is  rags!"  cried  a  young  law-student, 
with  a  Blackstone  under  his  arm,  to  the  town  rag-picker 
opposite,  who  was  unconsciously  ogling  the  vagrant's 
apparel. 

"  I  might  buy  'im  foh  'is  scalp"  drawled  a  farmer,  who 
had  taken  part  in  all  kinds  of  scalp  contests  and  was  now 
known  to  be  busily  engaged  in  collecting  crow  scalps 
for  a  match  soon  to  come  off  between  two  rival  counties. 

"  I  think  I'll  buy  'im  foh  a  hat-sign,"  said  a  manu 
facturer  of  ten-dollar  Castor  and  Rhorum  hats.  This 
sally  drew  merry  attention  to  the  vagrant's  hat,  and  the 
merchant  felt  rewarded. 

"  You'd  bettah  say  the  town  ought  to  buy  'im  an'  put 
'im  up  on  top  of  the  cou't-house  as  a  scarecrow  foh  the 
cholera,"  said  some  one  else. 

"  What  news  of  the  cholera  did  the  stage-coach  bring 
this  mohning  ?"  quickly  inquired  his  neighbor  in  his 
ear ;  and  the  two  immediately  fell  into  low,  grave  talk, 
forgot  the  auction,  and  turned  away. 

"  Stop,  gentlemen,  stop !"  cried  the  sheriff,  who  had 
watched  the  rising  tide  of  good-humor,  and  now  saw  his 
chance  to  float  in  on  it  with  spreading  sails.  "  You're 
runnin'  the  price  in  the  wrong  direction — down,  not 
up.  The  law  requires  that  he  be  sole  to  the  highes' 
biddah,  not  the  lowes'.  As  loyal  citizens,  uphole  the 


yo          KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

constitution  of  the  commonwealth  of  Kentucky  an' 
make  me  an  offah ;  the  man  is  really  a  great  bargain, 
in  the  first  place,  he  would  cos'  his  ownah  little  or 
nothin',  because,  as  you  see,  he  keeps  himself  in  cigahs 
an'  clo'es;  then,  his  main  article  of  diet  is  whiskey — a 
supply  of  which  he  always  has  on  han'.  He  don't  even 
need  a  bed,  foh  you  know  he  sleeps  jus'  as  well  on  any 
doohstep  ;  noh  a  chair,  foh  he  prefers  to  sit  roun'  on  the 
curb-stones.  Remembah,  too,  gentlemen,  that  ole  King 
Sol'mon  is  a  Virginian — from  the  same  neighbohhood  as 
Mr.  Clay.  Remembah  that  he  is  well  educated,  that  he  is 
an  awful  Whig,  an'  that  he  has  smoked  mo'  of  the  stumps 
of  Mr.  Clay's  cigahs  than  any  other  man  in  existence. 
If  you  don't  b'lieve  me,  gentlemen,  yondah  goes  Mr. 
Clay  now;  call  him  ovah  an'  ask  'im  foh  yo'se'ves." 

He  paused,  arid  pointed  with  his  right  forefinger  tow 
ards  Main  street,  along  which  the  spectators,  with  a 
sudden  craning  of  necks,  beheld  the  familiar  figure  of 
the  passing  statesman. 

"  But  you  don't  need  anybody  to  tell  you  these  fac's, 
gentlemen,"  he  continued.  "  You  merely  need  to  be  re 
minded  that  ole  King  Sol'mon  is  no  ohdinary  man.  Mo.'- 
ovah  he  has  a  kine  heaht,  he  nevah  spoke  a  rough  wohd 
to  anybody  in  this  worl,'  an'  he  is  as  proud  as  Tecumseh 
of  his  good  name  an'  charactah.  An',  gentlemen,"  he 
added,  bridling  with  an  air  of  mock  gallantry  and  laying 
a  hand  on  his  heart,  "  if  anythin'  fu'thah  is  required  in 
the  way  of  a  puffect  encomium,  we  all  know  that  there 
isn't  anothah  man  among  us  who  cuts  as  wide  a  swath 
among  the  ladies.  The'foh,  if  you  have  any  apprecia 
tion  of  virtue,  any  magnanimity  of  heaht ;  if  you  set  a 
propah  valuation  upon  the  descendants  of  Virginia,  that 
mothah  of  Presidents ;  if  you  believe  in  the  pure  laws 


KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY.          71 

of  Kentucky  as  the  pioneer  bride  of  the  Union ;  if  you 
love  America  an'  love  the  worP — make  me  a  gen'rous, 
high-toned  offah  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon  !" 

He  ended  his  peroration  amid  a  shout  of  laughter 
and  applause,  and,  feeling  satisfied  that  it  was  a  good 
time  for  returning  to  a  more  practical  treatment  of  his 
subject,  proceeded  in  a  sincere  tone  : 

"  He  can  easily  earn  from  one  to  two  dollahs  a  day, 
an'  from  three  to  six  hundred  a  yeah.  There's  not  an- 
othah  white  man  in  town  capable  of  doin'  as  much  work. 
There's  not  a  niggah  han'  in  the  hemp  factories  with 
such  muscles  an'  such  a  chest.  Look  at  'em!  An',  if 
you  don't  b'lieve  me,  step  fo'wahd  and  feel  'em.  How 
much,  then,  is  bid  foh  'im  ?" 

"One  dollah!"  said  the  owner  of  a  hemp  factory, 
who  had  walked  forward  and  felt  the  vagrant's  arm, 
laughing,  but  coloring  up  also  as  the  eyes  of  all  were 
quickly  turned  upon  him.  In  those  days  it  was  not  an 
unheard-of  thing  for  the  muscles  of  a  human  being  to 
be  thus  examined  when  being  sold  into  servitude  to  a 
new  master. 

"Thank  you  !"  cried  the  sheriff,  cheerily.  "  One  pre- 
cinc'  heard  from  !  One  dollah  !  I  am  offahed  one  dollah 
foh  ole  King  Sol'mon.  One  dollah  foh  the  king  !  Make 
it  a  half.  One  dollah  an'  a  half.  Make  it  a  half.  One 
dol-dol-dol-dollah !" 

Two  medical  students,  returning  from  lectures  at  the 
old  Medical  Hall,  now  joined  the  group,  and  the  sheriff 
explained : 

"  One  dollah  is  bid  foh  the  vagrant  ole  King  Sol'mon, 
who  is  to  be  sole  into  labah  foh  a  twelvemonth.  Is 
there  any  othah  bid  ?  Are  you  all  done  ?  One  dollah, 
once — " 


72  KING   SOLOMON   OF    KENTUCKY. 

"  Dollah  and  a  half,"  said  one  of  the  students,  and 
remarked  half  jestingly  under  his  breath  to  his  com 
panion,  "  I'll  buy  him  on  the  chance  of  his  dying.  We'll 
dissect  him." 

"  Would  you  own  his  body  if  he  should  die  ?" 
"  If  he  dies  while  bound  to  me,  I'll  arrange  that" 
"One  dollah  an'  a  half,"  resumed  the  sheriff;   and 
falling  into  the  tone  of  a  facile  auctioneer  he  rattled  on  : 
"One  dollah  an'  a  half  foh  ole  Sol'mon — sol,  sol,  sol, 
— do,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol— do,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol !     Why,  gentle 
men,  you  can  set  the  king  to  music  !'' 

All  this  time  the  vagrant  had  stood  in  the  centre  of 
that  close  ring  of  jeering  and  humorous  by-standers — 
— a  baffling  text  from  which  to  have  preached  a  sermon 
on  the  infirmities  of  our  imperfect  humanity.  Some 
years  before,  perhaps  as  a  master-stroke  of  derision, 
there  had  been  given  to  him  that  title  which  could  but 
heighten  the  contrast  of  his  personality  and  estate  with 
every  suggestion  of  the  ancient  sacred  magnificence ; 
and  never  had  the  mockery  seemed  so  fine  as  at  this 
moment,  when  he  was  led  forth  into  the  streets  to  re 
ceive  the  lowest  sentence  of  the  law  upon  his  poverty 
and  dissolute  idleness.  He  was  apparently  in  the  very 
prime  of  life — a  striking  figure,  for  nature  at  least  had 
truly  done  some  royal  work  on  him.  Over  six  feet  in 
height,  erect,  with  limbs  well  shaped  and  sinewy,  with 
chest  and  neck  full  of  the  lines  of  great  power,  a  large 
head  thickly  covered  with  long  reddish  hair,  eyes  blue, 
face  beardless,  complexion  fair  but  discolored  by  low 
passions  and  excesses — such  was  old  King  Solomon. 
He  wore  a  stiff,  high,  black  Castor  hat  of  the  period, 
with  the  crown  smashed  in  and  the  torn  rim  hanging 
down  over  one  ear ;  a  black  cloth  coat  in  the  old  style, 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  73 

ragged  and  buttonless ;  a  white  cotton  shirt,  with  the 
broad  collar  crumpled,  wide  open  at  the  neck  and  down 
his  sunburnt  bosom;  blue  jeans  pantaloons,  patched  at 
the  seat  and  the  knees  ;  and  ragged  cotton  socks  that 
fell  down  over  the  tops  of  his  dusty  shoes,  which  were 
open  at  the  heels. 

In  one  corner  of  his  sensual  mouth  rested  the  stump 
of  a  cigar.  Once  during  the  proceedings  he  had  pro 
duced  another,  lighted  it,  and  continued  quietly  smok 
ing.  If  he  took  to  himself  any  shame  as  the  central 
figure  of  this  ignoble  performance,  no  one  knew  it. 
There  was  something  almost  royal  in  his  unconcern. 
The  humor,  the  badinage,  the  open  contempt,  of  which 
he  was  the  public  target,  fell  thick  and  fast  upon  him, 
but  as  harmlessly  as  would  balls  of  pith  upon  a  coat  of 
mail.  In  truth,  there  was  that  in  his  great,  lazy,  gentle, 
good-humored  bulk  and  bearing  which  made  the  gibes 
seem  all  but  despicable.  He  shuffled  from  one  foot  to 
the  other  as  though  he  found  it  a  trial  to  stand  up  so 
long,  but  all  the  while  looking  the  spectators  full  in  the 
eyes  without  the  least  impatience.  He  suffered  the 
man  of  the  factory  to  walk  round  him  and  push  and 
pinch  his  muscles  as  calmly  as  though  he  had  been  the 
show  bull  at  a  country  fair.  Once  only,  when  the  sheriff 
had  pointed  across  the  street  at  the  figure  of  Mr.  Clay, 
he  had  looked  quickly  in  that  direction  with  a  kindling 
light  in  his  eye  and  a  passing  flush  on  his  face.  For 
the  rest,  he  seemed  like  a  man  who  has  drained  his  cup 
of  human  life  and  has  nothing  left  him  but  to  fill  again 
and  clrink  without  the  least  surprise  or  eagerness. 

The  bidding  between  the  man  of  the  factory  and  the 
student  had  gone  slowly  on.  The  price  had  reached 
ten  dollars.  The  heat  was  intense,  the  sheriff  tired. 


74  KING   SOLOMON   OF    KENTUCKY. 

Then  something  occurred  to  revivify  the  scene.  Across 
the  market-place  and  towards  the  steps  of  the  court 
house  there  suddenly  came  trundling  along  in  breath 
less  haste  a  huge  old  negress,  carrying  on  one  arm  a 
large  shallow  basket  containing  apple  crab-lanterns  and 
fresh  gingerbread.  With,  a  series  of  half-articulate 
grunts  and  snorts  she  approached  the  edge  of  the 
crowd  and  tried  to  force  her  way  through.  She  coaxed, 
she  begged,  she  elbowed  and  pushed  and  scolded,  now 
laughing,  and  now  with  the  passion  of  tears  in  her  thick, 
excited  voice.  All  at  once,  catching  sight  of  the  sheriff, 
she  lifted  one  ponderous  brown  arm,  naked  to  the  el 
bow,  and  waved  her  hand  to  him  above  the  heads  of 
those  in  front. 

"  Hole  on,  marseter  !  Hole  on  !"  she  cried,  in  a  tone 
of  humorous  entreaty.  "  Don'  knock  'im  off  till  I 
come  !  Gim  me  a  bid  at  'im  !" 

The  sheriff  paused  and  smiled.  The  crowd  made 
way  tumultuously,  with  broad  laughter  and  comment. 

"  Stan'  aside  theah  an'  let  Aun'  Charlotte  in  !" 

^^Vow  you'll  see  biddin'!" 

"  Get  out  of  the  way  foh  Aun'  Charlotte  !" 

"  Up,  my  free  niggah  !     Hurrah  foh  Kentucky  !" 

A  moment  more  and  she  stood  inside  the  ring  of 
spectators,  her  basket  on  the  pavement  at  her  feet,  her 
hands  plumped  akimbo  into  her  fathomless  sides,  her 
head  up,  and  her  soft,  motherly  eyes  turned  eagerly 
upon  the  sheriff.  Of  the  crowd  she  seemed  uncon 
scious,  and  on  the  vagrant  before  her  she  had  not  cast 
a  single  glance. 

She  was  dressed  with  perfect  neatness.  A  red  and 
yellow  Madras  kerchief  was  bound  about  her  head  in  a 
high  coil,  and  another  was  crossed  over  the  bosom  of 


KING   SOLOMON   OF    KENTUCKY.  75 

her  stiffly  starched  and  smoothly  ironed  blue  cottonade 
dress.  Rivulets  of  perspiration  ran  down  over  her  nose^ 
her  temples,  and  around  her  ears,  and  disappeared  mys 
teriously  in  the  creases  of  her  brown  neck.  A  single 
drop  accidentally  hung  glistening  like  a  diamond  on  the 
circlet  of  one  of  her  large  brass  ear-rings. 

The  sheriff  looked  at  her  a  moment,  smiling,  but  a 
little  disconcerted.  The  spectacle  was  unprecedented. 

"  What  do  you  want  heah,  Aun'  Charlotte  ?"  he  asked, 
kindly.  "You  can't  sell  yo'  pies  an'  gingerbread  heah." 

"  I  don'  wan  sell  no  pies  en  gingerbread,"  she  replied, 
contemptuously.  "I  wan'  bid  on  him"  and  she  nod 
ded  sidewise  at  the  vagrant. 

';  White  folks  allers  sellin'  niggahs  to  wuk  fuh  dem ; 
I  gwine  buy  a  white  man  to  wuk  fuh  me.  En  he  gwine 
t'  git  a  mighty  hard  mistiss,  you  heah  me/" 

The  eyes  of  the  sheriff  twinkled  with  delight. 

"Ten  dollahs  is  offahed  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon.  Is 
theah  any  othah  bid  ?  Are  you  all  done  ?" 

"  'Leben,"  she  said. 

Two  young  ragamuffins  crawled  among  the  legs  of 
the  crowd  up  to  her  basket  and  filched  pies  and  cake 
beneath  her  very  nose. 

"Twelve  !"  cried  the  student,  laughing. 

"  Thirteen  !"  she  laughed  too,  but  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  You  are  bidding  against  a  niggah"  whispered  the 
student's  companion  in  his  ear. 

"  So  1  am ;  let's  be  off,"  answered  the  other,  with  a 
hot  flush  on  his  proud  face. 

Thus  the  sale  was  ended,  and  the  crowd  variously  dis 
persed.  In  a  distant  corner  of  the  court-yard  the  ragged 
urchins  were  devouring  their  unexpected  booty.  The 
old  negress  drew  a  red  handkerchief  out  of  her  bosom, 


76  KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 

untied  a  knot  in  a  corner  of  it,  and  counted  out  the 
money  to  the  sheriff.  Only  she  and  the  vagrant  were 
now  left  on  the  spot. 

"You  have  bought  me.  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"  Lohd,  honey  !"  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone  of  affec 
tionate  chiding,  "  I  don'  wan'  you  to  do  nothirt !  I  wuzn' 
gwine  t'  'low  dem  white  folks  to  buy  you.  Dey'd  wuk 
you  till  you  dropped  dead.  You  go  'long  en  do  ez  you 
please." 

She  gave  a  cunning  chuckle  of  triumph  in  thus  set 
ting  at  naught  the  ends  of  justice,  and,  in  a  voice  rich 
and  musical  with  affection,  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  a 
little  push : 

"You  bettah  be  gittin'  out  o'  dis  blazin'  sun.  G'  on 
home  !  I  be  'long  by-en-by." 

He  turned  and  moved  slowly  away  in  the  direction  of 
Water  Street,  where  she  lived  ;  and  she,  taking  up  her 
basket,  shuffled  across  the  market-place  towards  Cheap- 
side,  muttering  to  herself  the  while  : 

"  I  come  mighty  nigh  gittin'  dah  too  late,  foolin'  'long 
wid  dese  pies.  Sellin'  him  'ca'se  he  don'  wuk !  Umph ! 
If  all  de  men  in  dis  town  dat  don'  wuk  wuz  to  be  tuk 
up  en  sole,  d'  wouldn'  be  'nought  money  in  de  town  to 
buy  'em !  Don'  I  see  'em  settin'  'roun'  dese  taverns 
f'om  mohnin'  till  night  ?" 

She  snorted  out  her  indignation  and  disgust,  and 
sitting  down  on  the  sidewalk,  under  a  Lombardy  pop 
lar,  uncovered  her  wares  and  kept  the  flies  away  with  a 
locust  bough,  not  discovering,  in  her  alternating  good 
and  ill  humor,  that  half  of  them  had  been  filched  by  her 
old  tormentors. 

This  was  the  memorable  scene  enacted  in  Lexington 


KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY.          77 

on  that  memorable  day  of  the  year  1833 — a  day  that 
passed  so  briskly.  For  whoever  met  and  spoke  to 
gether  asked  the  one  question :  Will  the  cholera  come 
to  Lexington?  And  the  answer  always  gave  a  nervous 
haste  to  business — a  keener  thrill  to  pleasure.  It  was 
of  the  cholera  that  the  negro  woman  heard  two  sweet 
passing  ladies  speak  as  she  spread  her  wares  on  the 
sidewalk.  They  were  on  their  way  to  a  little  picture- 
gallery  just  opened  opposite  M.  Giron's  ball-room,  and 
in  one  breath  she  heard  them  discussing  their  toilets  for 
the  evening  and  in  the  next  several  portraits  by  Jouett. 

So  the  day  passed,  the  night  came  on,  and  M.  Xaupi 
gave  his  brilliant  ball.  Poor  old  Xaupi  —  poor  little 
Frenchman  !  whirled  as  a  gamin  of  Paris  through  the 
mazes  of  the  Revolution,  and  lately  come  all  the  way 
to  Lexington  to  teach  the  people  how  to  dance.  Hop 
about  blithely  on  thy  dry  legs,  basking  this  night  in 
the  waxen  radiance  of  manners  and  melodies  and 
graces  !  Where  will  be  thy  tunes  and  airs  to-morrow  ? 
Ay,  smile  and  prompt  away  !  On  and  on  !  Swing  cor 
ners,  ladies  and  gentlemen  !  Form  the  basket !  Hands 
all  around ! 

While  the  bows  were  still  darting  across  the  strings, 
out  of  the  low,  red  east  there  shot  a  long,  tremulous 
bow  of  light  up  towards  the  zenith.  And  then,  could 
human  sight  have  beheld  the  invisible,  it  might  have 
seen  hovering  over  the  town,  over  the  ball-room,  over 
M.  Xaupi,  the  awful  presence  of  the  plague. 

But  knowing  nothing  of  this,  the  heated  revellers  went 
merrily  home  in  the  chill  air  of  the  red  and  saffron 
dawn.  And  knowing  nothing  of  it  also,  a  man  awaken 
ed  on  the  door-step  of  a  house  opposite  the  ball-room, 
where  he  had  long  since  fallen  asleep.  His  limbs  were 


78  KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 

cramped  and  a  shiver  ran  through  his  frame.  Stagger 
ing  to  his  feet,  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  house  of 
Free  Charlotte,  mounted  to  his  room  by  means  of  a 
stair-way  opening  on  the  street,  threw  off  his  outer  gar 
ments,  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  taking  a  bottle  from  a 
closet  pressed  it  several  times  to  his  lips  with  long  out 
ward  breaths  of  satisfaction.  Then,  casting  his  great 
white  bulk  upon  the  bed,  in  a  minute  more  he  had  sunk 
into  a  heavy  sleep — the  usual  drunken  sleep  of  old 
King  Solomon. 

He,  too,  had  attended  M.  Xaupi's  ball,  in  his  own  way 
and  in  his  proper  character,  being  drawn  to  the  place 
for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  fine  ladies  arrive  and  float 
in,  like  large  white  moths  of  the  summer  night ,  of  look 
ing  in  through  the  open  windows  at  the  many-colored 
waxen  lights  and  the  snowy  arms  and  shoulders  ,  of 
having  blown  out  to  him  the  perfume  and  the  music  ; 
not  worthy  to  go  in,  being  the  lowest  of  the  low,  but  at 
tending  from  a  door-step  of  the  street  opposite — with 
a  certain  rich  passion  in  his  nature  for  splendor  and 
revelry  and  sensuous  beauty. 


II. 

About  10  o'clock  the  sunlight  entered  through  the 
shutters  and  awoke  him.  He  threw  one  arm  up  over 
his  eyes  to  intercept  the  burning  rays.  As  he  lay  out 
stretched  and  stripped  of  grotesque  rags,  it  could  be 
better  seen  in  what  a  mould  nature  had  cast  his  figure. 
His  breast,  bare  and  tanned,  was  barred  by  full,  arch 
ing  ribs  and  knotted  by  crossing  muscles ;  and  his 
shirt-sleeve,  falling  away  to  the  shoulder  from  his  bent 


KING   SOLOMON    OF   KENTUCKY.  79 

arm,  revealed  its  crowded  muscles  in  the  high  relief  of 
heroic  bronze.  For,  although  he  had  been  sold  as  a 
vagrant,  old  King  Solomon  had  in  earlier  years  followed 

o  o  J 

the  trade  of  a  digger  of  cellars,  and  the  strenuous  use 
of  mattock  and  spade  had  developed  every  sinew  to  the 
utmost.  His  whole  person,  now  half  naked  and  in  re 
pose,  was  full  of  the  suggestions  of  unspent  power. 
Only  his  face,  swollen  and  red,  only  his  eyes,  bloodshot 
and  dull,  bore  the  impress  of  wasted  vitality.  There, 
all  too  plainly  stamped,  were  the  passions  long  since 
raging  and  still  on  fire. 

The  sunlight  had  stirred  him  to  but  a  low  degree  of 
consciousness,  and  some  minutes  passed  before  he  real 
ized  that  a  stifling,  resinous  fume  impregnated  the  air. 
He  sniffed  it  quickly ;  through  the  window  seemed  to 
come  the  smell  of  burning  tar.  He  sat  up  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  vainly  tried  to  clear  his  thoughts. 

The  room  was  a  clean  but  poor  habitation — uncar- 
peted,  whitewashed,  with  a  piece  or  two  of  the  cheapest 
furniture,  and  a  row  of  pegs  on  one  wall,  where  usually 
hung  those  tattered  coats  and  pantaloons,  miscellane 
ously  collected,  that  were  his  purple  and  fine  linen. 
He  turned  his  eyes  in  this  direction  now  and  noticed 
that  his  clothes  were  missing.  The  old  shoes  had  dis 
appeared  from  their  corner ;  the  cigar  stumps,  picked 
up  here  and  there  in  the  streets  according  to  his  wont, 
were  gone  from  the  mantel-piece.  Near  the  door  was 
a  large  bundle  tied  up  in  a  sheet.  In  a  state  of  bewil 
derment,  he  asked  himself  what  it  all  meant.  Then  a 
sense  of  the  silence  in  the  street  below  possessed  him. 
At  this  hour  he  was  used  to  hear  noises  enough — from 
Hugh  Lonney's  new  bath-house  on  one  side,  from  Har 
ry  Sikes's  barber-shop  on  the  other.  • 


8o  KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 

A  mysterious  feeling  of  terror  crept  over  and  helped 
to  sober  him.  How  long  had  he  lain  asleep  ?  By  de 
grees  he  seemed  to  remember  that  two  or  three  times 
he  had  awakened  far  enough  to  drink  from  the  bottle 
under  his  pillow,  only  to  sink  again  into  heavier  stupe 
faction.  By  degrees,  too,  he  seemed  to  remember  that 
other  things  had  happened — a  driving  of  vehicles  this 
way  and  that,  a  hurrying  of  people  along  the  street. 
He  had  thought  it  the  breaking-up  of  M.  Xaupi's  ball. 
More  than  once  had  not  some  one  shaken  and  tried  to 
arouse  him  ?  Through  the  wall  of  Harry  Sikes's  barber 
shop  had  he  not  heard  cries  of  pain — sobs  of  distress  ? 

He  staggered  to  the  window,  threw  open  the  shutters, 
and,  kneeling  at  the  sill,  looked  out.  The  street  was 
deserted.  The  houses  opposite  were  closed.  Cats  were 
sleeping  in  the  silent  door-ways.  But  as  he  looked  up 
and  down  he  caught  sight  of  people  hurrying  along 
cross-streets.  From  a  distant  lumber-yard  came  the 
muffled  sound  of  rapid  hammerings.  On  the  air  was 
the  faint  roll  of  vehicles — the  hush  and  the  vague  noises 
of  a  general  terrifying  commotion. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street  below  him  a  keg  was 
burning,  and,  as  he  looked,  the  hoops  gave  way,  the  tar 
spread  out  like  a  stream  of  black  lava,  and  a  cloud  of 
inky  smoke  and  deep-red  furious  flame  burst  upward 
through  the  sagging  air.  Just  beneath  the  window  a 
common  cart  had  been  backed  close  up  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  In  it  had  been  thrown  a  few  small  articles 
of  furniture,  and  on  the  bottom  bedclothes  had  been 
spread  out  as  if  for  a  pallet.  While  he  looked  old 
Charlotte  hurried  out  with  a  pillow. 

He  called  down  to  her  in  a  strange,  unsteady 
voice : 


KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY.          8 1 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  are  you  doing,  Aunt 
Charlotte  ?" 

She  uttered  a  cry,  dropped  the  pillow,  and  stared  up 
at  him.  Her  face  looked  dry  and  wrinkled. 

"My  God!  De  chol'ra's  in  town!  I'm  waitin'  on 
you !  Dress,  en  come  down  en  fetch  de  bun'le  by  de 
dooh."  And  she  hurried  back  into  the  house. 

But  he  continued  leaning  on  his  folded  arms,  his 
brain  stunned  by  the  shock  of  the  intelligence.  Sud 
denly  he  leaned  far  out  and  looked  down  at  the  closed 
shutters  of  the  barber-shop.  Old  Charlotte  reappeared. 

"Where  is  Harry  Sikes  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Dead  en  buried." 

"When  did  he  die?" 

"  Yestidd'y  evenin'." 

"  What  day  is  this  ?" 

"  Sadd'y." 

M.  Xaupi's  ball  had  been  on  Thursday  evening. 
That  night  the  cholera  had  broken  out.  He  had  laifl 
in  his  drunken  stupor  ever  since.  Their  talk  had  lasted 
but  a  minute,  but  she  looked  up  anxiously  and  urged 
him. 

"  D'  ain'  no  time  to  was'e,  honey  !  D'  ain'  no  time 
to  was'e.  I  done  got  dis  cyart  to  tek  you  'way  in,  en  I 
be  ready  to  start  in  a  minute.  Put  yo'  clo'es  on  en  bring 
de  bun'le  wid  all  yo'  yudder  things  in  it." 

With  incredible  activity  she  climbed  into  the  cart  and 
began  to  roll  up  the  bedclothes.  In  reality  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  put  him  into  the  cart,  and  the 
pallet  had  been  made  for  him  to  lie  and  finish  his 
drunken  sleep  on,  while  she  drove  him  away  to  a  place 
of  safety. 

Still  he  did  not  move  from  the  window-sill.  He  was 
6 


8a  KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 

thinking  of  Harry  Sikes,  who  had  shaved  him  many  a 
time  for  nothing.  Then  he  suddenly  called  down  to 
her: 

"  Have  many  died  of  the  cholera  ?  Are  there  many 
cases  in  town  ?" 

She  went  on  with  her  preparations  and  took  no  no 
tice  of  him.  He  repeated  the  question.  She  got  down 
quickly  from  the  cart  and  began  to  mount  the  staircase. 
He  went  back  to  bed,  pulled  the  sheet  up  over  him, 
and  propped  himself  up  among  the  pillows.  Her  soft, 
heavy  footsteps  slurred  on  the  stair-way  as  though  her 
strength  were  failing,  and  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
room  she  sank  into  a  chair,  overcome  with  terror.  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  sense  of  pity. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  It  might 
only  make  it  the  worse  for  you." 

"  I  can'  he'p  it,  honey,"  she  answered,  wringing  her 
hands  and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  ;  "  de  ole  niggah 
c^n'  he'p  it.  If  de  Lohd  jes  spah  me  to  git  out'n  dis 
town  wid  you  !  Honey,  ain'  you  able  to  put  on  yo' 
clo'es  ?" 

"  You've  tied  them  all  up  in  the  sheet." 

"  De  Lohd  he'p  de  crazy  ole  niggah  !" 

She  started  up  and  tugged  at  the  bundle,  and  laid 
out  a  suit  of  his  clothes,  if  things  so  incongruous  could 
be  called  a  suit. 

"  Have  many  people  died  of  the  cholera  ?" 

"  Dey  been  dyin'  like  sheep  ev'  since  yestidd'y 
mohnin'  — all  day,  en  all  las'  night,  en  dis  mohnin' ! 
De  man  he  done  lock  up  de  huss,  en  dey  been  buryin' 
'em  in  cyarts.  En  de  grave-diggah  he  done  run  away, 
en  hit  look  like  d'  ain'  nobody  to  dig  de  graves." 

She  bent  over  the  bundle,  tying  again  the  four  cor- 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  83 

ners  of  the  sheet.  Through  the  window  came  the 
sound  of  the  quick  hammers  driving  nails.  She  threw 
up  her  arms  into  the  air,  and  then  seizing  the  bundle 
dragged  it  rapidly  to  the  door. 

"  You  heah  dat  ?  Dey  nailin'  up  cawfins  in  de'  lum- 
bah-yahd!  Put  on  yo'  clo'es,  honey,  en  come  on." 

A  resolution  had  suddenly  taken  shape  in  his  mind. 

"  Go  on  away  and  save  your  life.  Don't  wait  for  me  ; 
I'm  not  going.  And  good-bye,  Aunt  Charlotte,  in  case 
I  don't  see  you  any  more.  You've  been  very  kind  to 
me — kinder  than  I  deserved.  Where  have  you  put  my 
mattock  and  spade  ?" 

He  said  this  very  quietly,  and  sat  up  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  his  feet  hanging  down,  and  his  hand  stretched 
out  towards  her. 

"  Honey,"  she  explained,  coaxingly,  from  where  she 
stood,  "  can't  you  sobah  up  a  little  en  put  on  yo'  clo'es  ? 
I  gwine  to  tek  you  'way  to  de  country.  You  don'  wan' 
no  tools.  You  can'  dig  no  cellahs  now.  De  chol'ra's 
in  town  en  de  people's  dyin'  like  sheep." 

"  I  expect  they  will  need  me,"  he  answered. 

She  perceived  now  that  he  was  sober.  For  an  in 
stant  her  own  fear  was  forgotten  in  an  outburst  of  re 
sentment  and  indignation. 

"  Dig  graves  fuh  'em,  when  dey  put  you  up  on  de 
block  en  sell  you  same  ez  you  wuz  a  niggah  !  Dig 
graves  fuh  'em,  when  dey  alters  callin'  you  names  on  de 
street  en  makin'  fun  o'  you !" 

"They  are  not  to  blame.  I  have  brought  it  on  my 
self." 

"  But  we  can'  stay  heah  en  die  o'  de  chol'ra  !" 

"You  mustn't  stay.     You  must  go  away  at  once." 

"  But  if  I  go,  who  gwine  tek  cyah  o'  you  ?" 


84  KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

"  Nobody." 

She  came  quickly  across  the  room  to  the  bed,  fell  on 
her  knees,  clasped  his  feet  to  her  breast,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  an  expression  of  imploring  tender 
ness.  Then,  with  incoherent  cries  and  with  sobs  and 
tears,  she  pleaded  with  him — pleaded  for  dear  life ;  his 
and  her  own. 

It  was  a  strange  scene.  What  historian  of  the  heart 
will  ever  be  able  to  do  justice  to  those  peculiar  ties 
which  bound  the  heart  of  the  negro  in  years  gone  by  to 
a  race  of  not  always  worthy  masters  ?  This  old  Virginia 
nurse  had  known  King  Solomon  when  he  was  a  boy 
playing  with  her  young  master,  till  that  young  master 
died  on  the  way  to  Kentucky. 

At  the  death  of  her  mistress  she  had  become  free 
with  a  little  property.  By  thrift  and  industry  she  had 
greatly  enlarged  this.  Years  passed  and  she  became 
the  only  surviving  member  of  the  Virginian  household, 
which  had  emigrated  early  in  the  century  to  the  Blue- 
grass  Region.  The  same  wave  of  emigration  had  brought 
in  old  King  Solomon  from  the  same  neighborhood.  As 
she  had  risen  in  life,  he  had  sunk.  She  sat  on  the 
sidewalks  selling  her  fruits  and  cakes ;  he  sat  on  the 
sidewalks  more  idle,  more  ragged  and  dissolute.  On 
no  other  basis  than  these  facts  she  began  to  assume  a 
sort  of  maternal  pitying  care  of  him,  patching  his  rags, 
letting  him  have  money  for  his  vices,  and  when,  a  year 
or  two  before,  he  had  ceased  working  almost  entirely, 
giving  him  a  room  in  her  house  and  taking  in  payment 
what  he  chose  to  pay. 

He  brushed  his  hand  quickly  across  his  eyes  as  she 
knelt  before  him  now,  clasping  his  feet  to  her  bosom. 
From  coaxing  him  as  an  intractable  child  she  had,  in 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  85 

the  old  servile  fashion,  fallen  to  imploring  him,  with 
touching  forgetfulness  of  their  real  relations  : 

"O  my  marseter  !  O  my  marseter  Solomon  !  Go  'way 
en  save  yo'  life,  en  tek  yo'  po'  ole  niggah  wid  you  !" 

But  his  resolution  was  formed,  and  he  refused  to  go. 
A  hurried  footstep  paused  beneath  the  window  and  a 
loud  voice  called  up.  The  old  nurse  got  up  and  went 
to  the  window.  A  man  was  standing  by  the  cart  at  her 
door. 

"  For  God's  sake  let  me  have  this  cart  to  take  my 
wife  and  little  children  away  to  the  country !  There  is 
not  a  vehicle  to  be  had  in  town.  I  will  pay  you — " 
He  stopped,  seeing  the  distress  on  her  face. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?"  he  asked,  for  he  knew  of  her  care  of 
old  King  Solomon. 

"  He  will  die  !"  she  sobbed.  "  Tilt  de  t'ings  out  on 
de  pavement.  I  gwine  t'  stay  wid  'im  en  tek  cyah  o' 
'im." 


III. 

A  little  later,  dressed  once  more  in  grotesque  rags 
and  carrying  on  his  shoulder  a  rusty  mattock  and  a 
rusty  spade,  old  King  Solomon  appeared  in  the  street 
below  and  stood  looking  up  and  down  it  with  an  air  of 
anxious  indecision.  Then  shuffling  along  rapidly  to  the 
corner  of  Mill  Street,  he  turned  up  towards  Main. 

Here  a  full  sense  of  the  terror  came  to  him.  A  man, 
hurrying  along  with  his  head  down,  ran  full  against  him 
and  cursed  him  for  the  delay: 

"  Get  out  of  my  way,  you  old  beast !"  he  cried.  "  If 
the  cholera  would  carry  you  off  it  would  be  a  blessing 
to  the  town." 


86          KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

Two  or  three  little  children,  already  orphaned  and 
hungry,  wandered  past,  crying  and  wringing  their  hands. 
A  crowd  of  negro  men  with  the  muscles  of  athletes, 
some  with  naked  arms,  some  naked  to  the  waist,  their 
eyes  dilated,  their  mouths  hanging  open,  sped  along  in 
tumultuous  disorder.  The  plague  had  broken  out  in 
the  hemp  factory  and  scattered  them  beyond  control. 

He  grew  suddenly  faint  and  sick.  His  senses  swam, 
his  heart  seemed  to  cease  beating,  his  tongue  burned, 
his  throat  was  dry,  his  spine  like  ice.  For  a  moment 
the  contagion  of  deadly  fear  overcame  him,  and,  unable 
to  stand,  he  reeled  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  sat 
down. 

Before  him  along  the  street  passed  the  flying  people 
— men  on  horseback  with  their  wives  behind  and  chil 
dren  in  front,  families  in  carts  and  wagons,  merchants 
in  two-wheeled  gigs  and  sulkies.  A  huge  red  and  yel 
low  stage-coach  rolled  ponderously  by,  filled  within,  on 
top,  in  front,  and  behind  with  a  company  of  riotous 
students  of  law  and  of  medicine.  A  rapid  chorus  of 
voices  shouted  to  him  as  they  passed  : 

"  Good-bye,  Solomon  !" 

"The  cholera'll  have  you  befoah  sunset !" 

"  Better  be  diggin'  yoah  grave,  Solomon  !  That  '11  be 
yoah  last  cellah." 

"  Dig  us  a  big  wine  cellah  undah  the  Medical  Hall 
while  we  are  away." 

'•  And  leave  yo'  body  there  !     We  want  yo'  skeleton." 

"  Good-bye,  old  Solomon  !" 

A  wretched  carry-all  passed  with  a  household  of  more 
wretched  women ;  their  tawdry  and  gay  attire,  their  hag 
gard  and  painted  and  ghastly  faces,  looking  horrible  in 
the  blaze  of  the  pitiless  sunlight.  They,  too,  simpered 


KING    SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  87 

and  hailed  him  and  spent  upon  him  their  hardened  and 
degraded  badinage.  Then  there  rolled  by  a  high-swung 
carriage,  with  the  most  luxurious  of  cushions,  uphol 
stered  with  morocco,  with  a  coat-of-arms,  a  driver  and  a 
footman  in  livery,  and  drawn  by  sparkling,  prancing 
horses.  Lying  back  on  the  satin  cushions  a  fine  gen 
tleman  ;  at  the  window  of  the  carriage  two  rosy  chil 
dren,  who  pointed  their  fingers  at  the  vagrant  and 
turned  and  looked  into  their  father's  face,  so  that  he 
leaned  forward,  smiled,  leaned  back  again,  and  was 
whirled  away  to  a  place  of  safety. 

Thus  they  passed  him,  as  he  sat  down  on  the  side 
walk — even  physicians  from  their  patients,  pastors  from 
their  stricken  flocks.  Why  should  not  he  flee  ?  He 
had  no  ties,  except  the  faithful  affection  of  an  old  ne- 
gress.  Should  he  not  at  least  save  her  life  by  going 
away,  seeing  that  she  would  not  leave  him  ? 

The  orphaned  children  wandered  past  again,  sobbing 
more  wearily.  He  called  them  to  him. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  home  ?  WThere  is  your  moth 
er  ?"  he  asked. 

"  She  is  dead  in  the  house,"  they  answered;  "  and  no 
one  has  come  to  bury  her." 

Slowly  down  the  street  was  coming  a  short  funeral 
train.  It  passed — a  rude  cortege  :  a  common  cart,  in 
the  bottom  of  which  rested  a  box  of  plain  boards  con 
taining  the  body  of  the  old  French  dancing -master; 
walking  behind  it,  with  a  cambric  handkerchief  to  his 
eyes,  the  old  French  confectioner  ;  at  his  side,  wearing 
the  robes  of  his  office  and  carrying  an  umbrella  to  ward 
off  the  burning  sun,  the  beloved  Bishop  Smith  ;  and  be 
hind  them,  two  by  two  and  with  linked  arms,  perhaps  a 
dozen  men,  most  of  whom  had  been  at  the  ball. 


88          KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

No  head  was  lifted  or  eye  turned  to  notice  the  va 
grant  seated  on  the  sidewalk.  But  when  the  train  had 
passed  he  rose,  laid  his  mattock  and  spade  across  his 
shoulder,  and,  stepping  out  into  the  street,  fell  into  line 
at  the  end  of  the  procession. 

They  moved  down  Short  Street  to  the  old  burying- 
ground,  where  the  Baptist  church-yard  is  to-day.  As 
they  entered  it,  two  grave-diggers  passed  out  and  hur 
ried  away.  Those  before  them  had  fled.  They  had 
been  at  work  but  a  few  hours.  Overcome  with  horror 
at  the  sight  of  the  dead  arriving  more  and  more  rapidly, 
they,  too,  deserted  that  post  of  peril.  No  one  was  left. 
Here  and  there  in  the  church-yard  could  be  seen  bodies 
awaiting  interment.  Old  King  Solomon  stepped  quiet 
ly  forward  and,  getting  down  into  one  of  the  half-finished 
graves,  began  to  dig. 

The  vagrant  had  happened  upon  an  avocation. 


IV. 

All  summer  long,  Clatterbuck's  dancing-pavilion  was 
as  silent  in  its  grove  of  oaks  as  a  temple  of  the  Druids, 
and  his  pleasure-boat  nestled  in  its  moorings,  with  no 
hand  to  feather  an  oar  in  the  little  lake.  All  summer 
long,  no  athletic  young  Kentuckians  came  to  bathe 
their  white  bodies  in  Hugh  Lonney's  new  bath-house 
for  twelve  and  a  half  cents,  and  no  one  read  Daukins 
Tegway's  advertisement  that  he  was  willing  to  exchange 
his  Dunstable  bonnets  for  flax  and  feathers.  The  like 
ly  runaway  boy,  with  a  long,  fresh  scar  across  his  face, 
was  never  found,  nor  the  buffalo  bull  roasted  for  Daniel 
Webster,  and  Peter  Leuba's  guitars  were  never  thrummed 


KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY.          89 

on  any  moonlit  verandas.    Only  Dewees  and  Grant  were 
busy,  dispensing,  not  snuff,  but  calomel. 

Grass  grew  in  the  deserted  streets.  Gardens  became 
little  wildernesses  of  rank  weeds  and  riotous  creepers. 
Around  shut  window-lattices  roses  clambered  and  shed 
their  perfume  into  the  poisoned  air,  or  dropped  their 
faded  petals  to  strew  the  echoless  thresholds.  In  dark 
ened  rooms  family  portraits  gazed  on  sad  vacancy  or 
looked  helplessly  down  on  rigid  sheeted  forms. 

In  the  trees  of  poplar  and  locust  along  the  streets 
the  unmolested  birds  built  and  brooded.  The  oriole 
swung  its  hempen  nest  from  a  bough  over  the  door  of 
the  spider-tenanted  factory,  and  in  front  of  the  old 
Medical  Hall  the  blue-jay  shot  up  his  angry  crest  and 
screamed  harshly  down  at  the  passing  bier.  In  a  cage 
hung  against  the  wall  of  a  house  in  a  retired  street  a 
mocking-bird  sung,  beat  its  breast  against  the  bars, 
sung  more  passionately,  grew  silent  and  dropped  dead 
from  its  perch,  never  knowing  that  its  mistress  had  long 
since  become  a  clod  to  its  full-throated  requiem. 

Famine  lurked  in  the  wake  of  the  pestilence.  Mar 
kets  were  closed.  A  few  shops  were  kept  open  to  fur 
nish  necessary  supplies.  Now  and  then  some  old  negro 
might  have  been  seen,  driving  a  meat-wagon  in  from  the 
country,  his  nostrils  stuffed  with  white  cotton  saturated 
with  camphor.  Oftener  the  only  visible  figure  in  the 
streets  was  that  of  a  faithful  priest  going  about  among 
his  perishing  fold,  or  that  of  the  bishop  moving  hither 
and  thither  on  his  ceaseless  ministrations. 

But  over  all  the  ravages  of  that  terrible  time  there 
towered  highest  the  solitary  figure  of  that  powerful 
grave-digger,  who,  nerved  by  the  spectacle  of  the  com 
mon  misfortune,  by  one  heroic  effort  rose  for  the  time 


go          KING  SOLOMON  OF  KENTUCKY. 

above  the  wrecks  of  his  own  nature.  In  the  thick  of 
the  plague,  in  the  very  garden  spot  of  the  pestilence,  he 
ruled  like  an  unterrified  king.  Through  days  unnat 
urally  chill  with  gray  cloud  and  drizzling  rain,  or  unnat 
urally  hot  with  the  fierce  sun  and  suffocating  damps 
that  appeared  to  steam  forth  from  subterranean  cal 
drons,  he  worked  unfaltering,  sometimes  with  a  helper, 
sometimes  with  none.  There  were  times  when,  ex 
hausted,  he  would  lie  down  in  the  half-dug  graves  and 
there  sleep  until  able  to  go  on  ;  and  many  a  midnight 
found  him  under  the  spectral  moon,  all  but  hidden  by 
the  rank  nightshade  as  he  bent  over  to  mark  out  the 
lines  of  one  of  those  narrow  mortal  cellars. 

What  weaknesses  he  fought  and  conquered  through 
those  days  and  nights  !  Out  of  what  unforeseen  depths 
of  nature  did  he  draw  the  tough  fibre  of  such  a  resolu 
tion  !  To  be  alone  with  the  pestilential  dead  at  night — 
is  not  that  a  test  of  imperial  courage  ?  To  live  for 
weeks  braving  swift  death  itself —is  not  that  the  fierce 
and  ungovernable  flaring  up  of  the  soul  in  heroism  ? 
For  all  the  mockery  and  derision  of  his  name,  had  it  not 
some  fitness  ?  For  had  he  not  a  royal  heart  ? 


V. 

Nature  soon  smiles  upon  her  own  ravages  and 
strews  our  graves  with  flowers,  not  as  memories,  but  for 
other  flowers  when  the  spring  returns. 

It  was  one  cool,  brilliant  morning  late  in  that  au 
tumn.  The  air  blew  fresh  and  invigorating,  as  though 
on  the  earth  there  were  no  corruption,  no  death.  Far 
southward  had  flown  the  plague.  A  spectator  in  the 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY.  91 

open  court-square  might  have  seen  many  signs  of  life 
returning  to  the  town.  Students  hurried  along,  talking 
eagerly.  Merchants  met  for  the  first  time  and  spoke  of 
the  winter  trade.  An  old  negress,  gayly  and  neatly 
dressed,  came  into  the  market-place,  and  sitting  down 
en  a  sidewalk  displayed  her  yellow  and  red  apples  and 
fragrant  gingerbread.  She  hummed  to  herself  an  old 
cradle-song,  and  in  her  soft,  motherly  black  eyes  shone 
a  mild,  happy  radiance.  A  group  of  young  ragamuffins 
eyed  her  longingly  from  a  distance.  Court  was  to  open 
for  the  first  time  since  the  spring.  The  hour  was  early, 
and  one  by  one  the  lawyers  passed  slowly  in.  On  the 
steps  of  the  court  -  house  three  men  were  standing : 
Thomas  Brown,  the  sheriff;  old  Peter  Leuba,  who  had 
just  walked  over  from  his  music-store  on  Main  Street; 
and  little  M.  Giron,  the  French  confectioner.  Each  wore 
mourning  on  his  hat,  and  their  voices  were  low  and  grave. 
"Gentlemen,"  the  sheriff  was  saying,  "it  was  on  this 
very  spot  the  day  befoah  the  cholera  broke  out  that  I 
sole  'im  as  a  vagrant.  An'  I  did  the  meanes'  thing  a 
man  can  evah  do.  I  heF  'im  up  to  public  ridicule  foh 
his  weaknesses  an'  made  spoht  of  'is  infirmities.  I 
laughed  at  'is  povahty  an-  'is  ole  clo'es.  I  delivahed 
on  'im  as  complete  an  oration  of  sarcastic  detraction  as 
I  could  prepare  on  the  spot,  out  of  my  own  meanness 
an'  with  the  vulgah  sympathies  of  the  crowd.  Gentle 
men,  if  I  only  had  that  crowd  heah  now,  an'  ole  King 
Sol'mon  standin'  in  the  midst  of  it,  that  I  might  ask  'im 
to  accept  a  humble  public  apology,  offahed  from  the 
heaht  of  one  who  feels  himself  unworthy  to  shake  'is 
han' !  But,  gentlemen,  that  crowd  will  nevah  reassem 
ble.  Neahly  ev'ry  man  of  them  is  dead,  an'  ole  King 
Sol'mon  buried  them." 


92 


KING   SOLOMON    OF    KENTUCKY. 


"  He  buried  my  friend  Adolphe  Xaupi,"  said  Francois 
Giron,  touching  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  There  is  a  case  of  my  best  Jamaica  rum  for  him 
whenever  he  comes  for  it,"  said  old  Leuba,  clearing  his 
throat. 

"  But,  gentlemen,  while  we  are  speakin'  of  ole  King 
Sol'mon  we  ought  not  to  fohget  who  it  is  that  has  sup- 
pohted  'im.  Yondah  she  sits  on  the  sidewalk,  sellin' 
'er  apples  an'  gingerbread." 

The  three  men  looked  in  the  direction  indicated. 

"  Heah  comes  ole  King  Sol'mon  now,"  exclaimed  the 
sheriff. 

Across  the  open  square  the  vagrant  was  seen  walking 
slowly  along  with  his  habitual  air  of  quiet,  unobtrusive 
preoccupation.  A  minute  more  and  he  had  come  over 
and  passed  into  the  court-house  by  a  side  door. 

"  Is  Mr.  Clay  to  be  in  court  to-day  ?" 

"  He  is  expected,  I  think." 

"  Then  let's  go  in ;  there  will  be  a  crowd." 

"  I  don't  know ;  so  many  are  dead." 

They  turned  and  entered  and  found  seats  as  quietly 
as  possible ;  for  a  strange  and  sorrowful  hush  brooded 
over  the  court-room.  Until  the  bar  assembled,  it  had 
not  been  realized  how  many  were  gone.  The  silence 
was  that  of  a  common  overwhelming  disaster.  No  one 
spoke  with  his  neighbor,  no  one  observed  the  vagrant 
as  he  entered  and  made  his  way  to  a  seat  on  one  of 
the  meanest  benches,  a  little  apart  from  the  others. 
He  had  not  sat  there  since  the  day  of  his  indictment 
for  vagrancy.  The  judge  took  his  seat  and,  making  a 
great  effort  to  control  himself,  passed  his  eyes  slowly 
over  the  court-room.  All  at  once  he  caught  sight  of 
old  King  Solomon  sitting  against  the  wall  in  an  obscure 


KING   SOLOMON    OF   KENTUCKY.  93 

corner  •  and  before  any  one  could  know  what  he  was 
doing,  he  hurried  down  and  walked  up  to  the  vagrant 
and  grasped  his  hand.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  could 
not.  Old  King  Solomon  had  buried  his  wife  and  daugh 
ter —  buried  them  one  clouded  midnight,  with  no  one 
present  but  himself. 

Then  the  oldest  member  of  the  bar  started  up  and 
followed  the  example ;  and  then  the  other  members, 
rising  by  a  common  impulse,  filed  slowly  back  and  one 
by  one  wrung  that  hard  and  powerful  hand.  After 
them  came  the  other  persons  in  the  court-room.  The 
vagrant,  the  grave-digger,  had  risen  and  stood  against 
the  wall,  at  first  with  a  white  face  and  a  dazed  expres 
sion,  not  knowing  what  it  meant ;  afterwards,  when  he 
understood  it,  his  head  dropped  suddenly  forward  and 
his  tears  fell  thick  and  hot  upon  the  hands  that  he  could 
not  see.  And  his  were  not  the  only  tears.  Not  a  man 
in  the  long  file  but  paid  his  tribute  of  emotion  as  he 
stepped  forward  to  honor  that  image  of  sadly  eclipsed 
but  still  effulgent  humanity.  It  was  not  grief,  it  was  not 
gratitude,  nor  any  sense  of  making  reparation  for  the 
past.  It  was  the  softening  influence  of  an  act  of  hero 
ism,  which  makes  every  man  feel  himself  a  brother  hand 
in  hand  with  every  other — such  power  has  a  single  act 
of  moral  greatness  to  reverse  the  relations  of  men,  lift 
ing  up  one,  and  bringing  all  others  to  do  him  homage. 

It  was  the  coronation  scene  in  the  life  of  old  King 
Solomon  of  Kentucky.  • 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF   KENTUCKY. 


Gentlemen  of  Ikentucfes, 

"The  woods  are  hushed,  their  music  is  no  more: 

The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  passed  away : 
New  leaf,  new  life — the  days  of  frost  are  o'er: 
New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer  day." 

» 

THE    WOODS    ARE    HUSHED. 

IT  was  near  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  an  au 
tumnal  day,  on  the  wide,  grassy  plateau  of  Central  Ken 
tucky. 

The  Eternal  Power  seemed  to  have  quitted  the  uni 
verse  and  left  all  nature  folded  in  the  calm  of  the  Eter 
nal  Peace.  Around  the  pale  blue  dome  of  the  heavens, 
a  few  pearl-colored  clouds  hung  motionless,  as  though 
the  wind  had  been  withdrawn  to  other  skies.  Not  a 
crimson  leaf  floated  downward  through  the  soft,  silvery 
light  that  filled  the  atmosphere  and  created  the  sense 
of  lonely,  unimaginable  spaces.  This  light  overhung  the 
far-rolling  landscape  of  field  and  meadow  and  wood, 
crowning  with  faint  radiance  the  remoter  low-swelling 
hill-tops  and  deepening  into  dreamy  half-shadows  on 
their  eastern  slopes.  Nearer,  it  fell  in  a  white  flake  on 
an  unstirred  sheet  of  water  which  lay  along  the  edge  of* 
a  mass  of  sombre -hued  woodland,  and  nearer  still  it 
touched  to  spring-like  brilliancy  a  level,  green  meadow 
on  the  hither  edge  of  the  water,  where  a  group  of  Dur 
ham  cattle  stood  with  reversed  flanks  near  the  gleam- 
7 


98  TWO   GENTL1.MEX    OF    KENTUCKY. 

ing  trunks  of  some  leafless  sycamores.  Still  nearer,  it 
caught  the  top  of  the  brown  foliage  of  a  little  bent  oak- 
tree  and  burned  it  into  a  silvery  flame.  It  lit  on  the  back 
and  the  wings  of  a  crow  flying  heavily  in  the  path  of  its 
rays,  and  made  his  blackness  as  white  as  the  breast  of 
a  swan.  In  the  immediate  foreground,  it  sparkled  in 
minute  gleams  along  the  stalks  of  the  coarse,  dead 
weeds  that  fell  away  from  the  legs  and  the  flanks  of  a 
white  horse,  and  slanted  across  the  face  of  the  rider 
and  through  the  ends  of  his  gray  hair,  which  straggled 
trom  beneath  his  soft  black  hat. 

The  horse,  old  and  patient  and  gentle,  stood  with 
low-stretched  neck  and  closed  eyes  half  asleep  in  the 
faint  glow  of  the  waning  heat;  and  the  rider,  the  sole 
human  presence  in  all  the  field,  sat  looking  across  the 
silent  autumnal  landscape,  sunk  in  reverie.  Both  horse 
and  rider  seemed  but  harmonious  elements  in  the  pan 
orama  of  still-life,  and  completed  the  picture  of  a  clos 
ing  scene. 

To  the  man  it  was  a  closing  scene.  From  the  rank, 
fallow  field  through  which  he  had  been  riding  he  was 
now  surveying,  for  the  last  time,  the  many  features  of  a 
landscape  that  had  been  familiar  to  him  from  the  be 
ginning  of  memory.  In  the  afternoon  and  the  autumn 
of  his  age  he  was  about  to  rend  the  last  ties  that  bound 
him  to  his  former  life,  and,  like  one  who  had  survived 
his  own  destiny,  turn  his  face  towards  a  future  that  was 
void  of  everything  he  held  significant  or  dear. 
*  The  Civil  War  had  only  the  year  before  reached  its 
ever-memorable  close.  From  where  he  sat  there  was 
not  a  home  in  sight,  as  there  was  not  one  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  vision,  but  had  felt  its  influence.  Some  of 
his  neighbors  had  come  home  from  its  camps  and  pris- 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         99 

ons,  aged  or  altered  as  though  by  half  a  lifetime  of 
years.  The  bones  of  some  lay  whitening  on  its  battle 
fields.  Families,  reassembled  around  their  hearth-stones, 
spoke  in  low  tones  unceasingly  of  defeat  and  victory, 
heroism  and  death.  Suspicion  and  distrust  and  es 
trangement  prevailed.  Former  friends  met  each  other 
on  the  turnpikes  without  speaking ;  brothers  avoided 
each  other  in  the  streets  of  the  neighboring  town.  The 
rich  had  grown  poor ;  the  poor  had  become  rich.  Many 
of  the  latter  were  preparing  to  move  West.  The  ne 
groes  were  drifting  blindly  hither  and  thither,  deserting 
the  country  and  flocking  to  the  towns.  Even  the  once 
united  church  of  his  neighborhood  was  jarred  by  the 
unstrung  and  discordant  spirit  of  the  times.  At  affect 
ing  passages  in  the  sermons  men  grew  pale  and  set 
their  teeth  fiercely;  women  suddenly  lowered  their  black 
veils  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  their  pews  ;  for  it  is  al 
ways  at  the  bar  of  Conscience  and  before  the  very  altar 
of  God  that  the  human  heart  is  most  wrung  by  a  sense 
of  its  losses  and  the  memory  of  its  wrongs.  The  war 
had  divided  the  people  of  Kentucky  as  the  false  mother 
would  have  severed  the  child. 

It  had  not  left  the  old  man  unscathed.  His  younger 
brother  had  fallen  early  in  the  conflict,  borne  to  the  end 
of  his  brief  warfare  by  his  impetuous  valor;  his  aged 
mother  had  sunk  under  the  tidings  of  the  death  of  her 
latest-born  ;  his  sister  was  estranged  from  him  by  his 
political  differences  with  her  husband  ;  his  old  family 
servants,  men  and  women,  had  left  him,  and  grass  and 
weeds  had  already  grown  over  the  door-steps  of  the 
shut,  noiseless  cabins.  Nay,  the  whole  vast  social  sys 
tem  of  the  old  regime  had  fallen,  and  he  .was  hence 
forth  but  a  useless  fragment  of  the  ruins. 


100  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

All  at  once  his  mind  turned  from  the  cracked  and 
smoky  mirror  of  the  times  and  dwelt  fondly  upon  the 
scenes  of  the  past.  The  silent  fields  around  him  seemed 
again  alive  with  the  negroes,  singing  as  they  followed  the 
ploughs  down  the  corn-rows  or  swung  the  cradles  through 
the  bearded  wheat.  Again,  in  a  frenzy  of  merriment, 
the  strains  of  the  old  fiddles  issued  from  crevices  of 
cabin-doors  to  the  rhythmic  beat  of  hands  and  feet  that 
shook  the  rafters  and  the  roof.  Now  he  was  sitting  on 
his  porch,  and  one  little  negro  was  blacking  his  shoes, 
another  leading  his  saddle-horse  to  the  stiles,  a  third 
bringing  his  hat,  and  a  fourth  handing  him  a  glass  of 
ice-cold  sangaree ;  or  now  he  lay  under  the  locust-trees 
in  his  yard,  falling  asleep  in  the  drowsy  heat  of  the 
summer  afternoon,  while  one  waved  over  him  a  bough 
of  pungent  walnut  leaves,  until  he  lost  consciousness 
and  by-and-by  awoke  to  find  that  they  both  had  fallen 
asleep  side  by  side  on  the  grass  and  that  the  abandoned 
fly-brush  lay  full  across  his  face. 

From  where  he  sat  also  were  seen  slopes  on  which 
picnics  were  danced  under  the  broad  shade  of  maples 
and  elms  in  June  by  those  whom  death  and  war  had 
scattered  like  the  transitory  leaves  that  once  had  shel 
tered  them.  In  this  direction  lay  the  district  school- 
house  where  on  Friday  evenings  there  were  wont  to  be 
speeches  and  debates ;  in  that,  lay  the  blacksmith's 
shop  where  of  old  he  and  his  neighbors  had  met  on 
horseback  of  Saturday  afternoons  to  hear  the  news, 
get  the  mails,  discuss  elections,  and  pitch  quoits.  In 
the  valley  beyond  stood  the  church  at  which  all  had 
assembled  on  calm  Sunday  mornings  like  the  members 
of  one  united  family.  Along  with  these  scenes  went 
many  a  chastened  reminiscence  of  bridal  and  funeral 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         IOI 

and  simpler  events  that  had  made  up  the  annals  of  his 
country  life. 

The  reader  will  have  a  clearer  insight  into  the  char 
acter  and  past  career  of  Colonel  Romulus  Fields  by 
remembering  that  he  represented  a  fair  type  of  that  so 
cial  order  which  had  existed  in  rank  perfection  over 
the  blue-grass  plains  of  Kentucky  during  the  final  dec 
ades  of  the  old  regime.  Perhaps  of  all  agriculturists 
in  the  United  States  the  inhabitants  of  that  region  had 
spent  the  most  nearly  idyllic  life,  on  account  of  the 
beauty  of  the  climate,  the  richness  of  the  land,  the 
spacious  comfort  of  their  homes,  the  efficiency  of  their 
negroes,  and  the  characteristic  contentedness  of  their 
dispositions.  Thus  nature  and  history  combined  to 
make  them  a  peculiar  class,  a  cross  between  the  aristo 
cratic  and  the  bucolic,  being  as  simple  as  shepherds 
and  as  proud  as  kings,  and  not  seldom  exhibiting  among 
both  men  and  women  types  of  character  which  were  as 
remarkable  for  pure,  tender,  noble  states  of  feeling  as 
they  were  commonplace  in  powers  and  cultivation  of 
mind. 

It  was  upon  this  luxurious  social  growth  that  the  war 
naturally  fell  as  a  killing  frost,  and  upon  no  single 
specimen  with  more  blighting  power  than  upon  Colonel 
Fields.  For  destiny  had  quarried  and  chiselled  him,  to 
serve  as  an  ornament  in  the  barbaric  temple  of  human 
bondage.  There  were  ornaments  in  that  temple,  and  he 
was  one.  A  slave-holder  with  Southern  sympathies,  a 
man  educated  not  beyond  the  ideas  of  his  generation, 
convinced  that  slavery  was  an  evil,  yet  seeing  no  pres 
ent  way  of  removing  it,  he  had  of  all  things  been  a  model 
master.  As  such  he  had  gone  on  record  in  Kentucky, 
and  no  doubt  in  a  Higher  Court ;  and  as  such  his 


102        TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY. 

efforts  had  been  put  forth  to  secure  the  passage  of  many 
of  those  milder  laws  for  which  his  State  was  distin 
guished.  Often,  in  those  dark  days,  his  face,  anxious 
and  sad,  was  to  be  seen  amid  the  throng  that  sur 
rounded  the  blocks  on  which  slaves  were  sold  at  auc 
tion  ;  and  more  than  one  poor  wretch  he  had  bought  to 
save  him  from  separation  from  his  family  or  from  being 
sold  into  the  Southern  plantations — afterwards  riding 
far  and  near  to  find  him  a  home  on  one  of  the  neigh 
boring  farms. 

But  all  those  days  were  over.  He  had  but  to  place 
the  whole  picture  of  the  present  beside  the  whole  pict 
ure  of  the  past  to  realize  what  the  contrast  meant  for 
him. 

At  length  he  gathered  the  bridle  reins  from  the  neck 
of  his  old  horse  and  turned  his  head  homeward.  As 
he  rode  slowly  on,  every  spot  gave  up  its  memories. 
He  dismounted  when  he  came  to  the  cattle  and  walked 
among  them,  stroking  their  soft  flanks  and  feeling  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand  the  rasp  of  their  salt -loving 
tongues  ;  on  his  sideboard  at  home  was  many  a  silver 
cup  which  told  of  premiums  on  cattle  at  the  great  fairs. 
It  was  in  this  very  pond  that  as  a  boy  he  had  learned 
to  swim  on  a  cherry  rail.  When  he  entered  the  woods, 
the  sight  of  the  walnut-trees  and  the  hickory-nut  trees, 
loaded  on  the  topmost  branches,  gave  him  a  sudden 
pang. 

Beyond  the  woods  he  came  upon  the  garden,  which 
he  had  kept  as  his  mother  had  left  it — an  old-fashioned 
garden  with  an  arbor  in  the  centre,  covered  with  Isa 
bella  grape-vines  on  one  side  and  Catawba  on  the 
other ;  with  walks  branching  thence  in  four  directions, 
and  along  them  beds  of  jump-up-johnnies,  sweet-will- 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         103 

iams,  daffodils,  sweet -peas,  larkspur,  and  thyme,  flags 
and  the  sensitive -plant,  celestial  and  maiden's -blush 
roses.  He  stopped  and  looked  over  the  fence  at  the 
very  spot  where  he  had  found  his  mother  on  the  day 
when  the  news  of  the  battle  came. 

She  had  been  kneeling,  trowel  in  hand,  driving  away 
vigorously  at  the  loamy  earth,  and,  as  she  saw  him 
coming,  had  risen  and  turned  towards  him  her  face 
with  the  ancient  pink  bloom  on  her  clear  cheeks  and 
the  light  of  a  pure,  strong  soul  in  her  gentle  eyes. 
Overcome  by  his  emotions,  he  had  blindly  faltered  out 
the  words,  '•  Mother,  John  was  among  the  killed  !"  For 
a  moment  she  had  looked  at  him  as  though  stunned  by 
a  blow.  Then  a  violent  flush*  had  overspread  her  feat 
ures,  and  then  an  ashen  pallor ;  after  which,  with  a 
sudden  proud  dilating  of  her  form  as  though  with  joy, 
she  had  sunk  down  like  the  tenderest  of  her  lily-stalks, 
cut  from  its  root. 

Beyond  the  garden  he  came  to  the  empty  cabin  and 
the  great  wood-pile.  At  this  hour  it  used  to  be  a  scene 
of  hilarious  activity — the  little  negroes  sitting  perched 
in  chattering  groups  on  the  topmost  logs  or  playing 
leap-frog  in  the  dust,  while  some  picked  up  baskets  of 
chips  or  dragged  a  back-log  into  the  cabins. 

At  last  he  drew  near  the  wooden  stiles  and  saw  the 
large  house  of  which  he  was  the  solitary  occupant. 
What  darkened  rooms  and  noiseless  halls  !  What  beds, 
all  ready,  that  nobody  now  came  to  sleep  in,  and  cush 
ioned  old  chairs  that  nobody  rocked !  The  house  and 
the  contents  of  its  attic,  presses,  and  drawers  could 
have  told  much  of  the  history  of  Kentucky  from  almost 
its  beginning;  for  its  foundations  had  been  laid  by  his 
father  near  the  beginning  of  the  century,  and  through 


104         TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY. 

its  doors  had  passed  a  long  train  of  forms,  from  the 
veterans  of  the  Revolution  to  the  soldiers  of  the  Civil 
War.  Old  coats  hung  up  in  closets  ;  old  dresses  folded 
away  in  drawers;  saddle-bags  and  buckskin  -  leggins ; 
hunting-jackets,  powder-horns,  and  militiamen  hats; 
looms  and  knitting-needles;  snuffboxes  and  reticules 
— what  a  treasure-house  of  the  past  it  was !  And  now 
the  only  thing  that  had  the  springs  of  life  within  its 
bosom  was  the  great,  sweet-voiced  clock,  whose  faithful 
face  had  kept  unchanged  amid  all  the  swift  pageantry 
of  changes. 

He  dismounted  at  the  stiles  and  handed  the  reins  to 
a  gray-haired  negro,  who  had  hobbled  up  to  receive 
them  with  a  smile  and  a  gesture  of  the  deepest  respect. 

"  Peter,"  he  said,  very  simply,  "  I  am  going  to  sell  the 
place  and  move  to  town.  I  can't  live  here  any  longer." 

With  these  words  he  passed  through  the  yard-gate, 
walked  slowly  up  the  broad  pavement,  and  entered  the 
house. 


MUSIC    NO    MORE. 

On  the  disappearing  form  of  the  colonel  was  fixed 
an  ancient  pair  of  eyes  that  looked  out  at  him  from  be 
hind  a  still  more  ancient  pair  of  silver-rimmed  spectacles 
with  an  expression  of  indescribable  solicitude  and  love. 

These  eyes  were  set  in  the  head  of  an  old  gentleman 
— for  such  he  was — named  Peter  Cotton,  who  was  the 
only  one  of  the  colonel's  former  slaves  that  had  remained 
inseparable  from  his  person  and  his  altered  fortunes. 
In  early  manhood  Peter  had  been  a  wood-chopper ;  but 
he  had  one  day  had  his  leg  broken  by  the  limb  of  a 
falling  tree,  and  afterwards,  out  of  consideration  for  his 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY.  105 

limp,  had  been  made  supervisor  of  the  wood-pile,  gar 
dener,  and  a  sort  of  nondescript  servitor  of  his  master's 
luxurious  needs. 

Nay,  in  larger  and  deeper  characters  must  his  history 
be  writ,  he  having  been,  in  days  gone  by,  one  of  those 
ministers  of  the  gospel  whom  conscientious  Kentucky 
masters  often  urged  to  the  exercise  of  spiritual  functions 
in  behalf  of  their  benighted  people.  In  course  of  prep 
aration  for  this  august  work,  Peter  had  learned  to  read 
and  had  come  to  possess  a  well-chosen  library  of  three 
several  volumes — Webster's  Spelling  -  Book,  The  Pil 
grims  Progress,  and  the  Bible.  But  even  these  un 
usual  acquisitions  he  deemed  not  enough ;  for  being 
touched  with  a  spark  of  poetic  fire  from  heaven,  and 
fired  by  the  African's  fondness  for  all  that  is  con 
spicuous  in  dress,  he  had  conceived  for  himself  the  cre 
ation  of  a  unique  garment  which  should  symbolize  in 
perfection  the  claims  and  consolations  of  his  apostolic 
office.  This  was  nothing  less  than  a  sacred  blue-jeans 
coat  that  he  had  had  his  old  mistress  make  him,  with 
very  long  and  spacious  tails,  whereon,  at  his  further 
direction,  she  embroidered  sundry  texts  of  Scripture 
which  it  pleased  him  to  regard  as  the  fit  visible  annun 
ciations  of  his  holy  calling.  And  inasmuch  as  his  mis 
tress,  who  had  had  the  coat  woven  on  her  own  looms 
from  the  wool  of  her  finest  sheep,  was,  like  other  gentle 
women  of  her  time,  rarely  skilled  in  the  accomplish 
ments  of  the  needle,  and  was  moreover  in  full  sympa 
thy  with  the  piety  of  his  intent,  she  wrought  of  these 
passages  a  border  enriched  with  such  intricate  curves, 
marvellous  flourishes,  and  harmonious  letterings,  that 
Solomon  never  reflected  the  glory  in  which  Peter  was 
arrayed  whenever  he  put  it  on.  For  after  much  prayer 


106         TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY. 

that  the  Almighty  wisdom  would  aid  his  reason  in  the 
difficult  task  of  selecting  the  most  appropriate  texts, 
Peter  had  chosen  seven — one  for  each  day  in  the  week 
—with  such  tact,  and  no  doubt  heavenly  guidance,  that 
when  braided  together  they  did  truly  constitute  an  elo 
quent  epitome  of  Christian  duty,  hope,  and  pleading. 

From  first  to  last  they  were  as  follows  :  "  Woe  is 
unto  me  if  I  preach  not  the  gospel ;"  "  Servants,  be 
obedient  to  them  that  are  your  masters  according  to 
the  flesh  ;"  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are 
heavy  laden  ;"  "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how 
they  grow  ;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  ;"  "  Now 
abideth  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  these  three;  but  the 
greatest  of  these  is  charity  ;"  "  I  would  not  have  you 
to  be  ignorant,  brethren,  concerning  them  which  are 
asleep  ;"  "For  as  in  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ  shall 
all  be  made  alive.''  This  concatenation  of  texts  Peter 
wished  to  have  duly  solemnized,  and  therefore,  when  the 
work  was  finished,  he  further  requested  his  mistress  to 
close  the  entire  chain  with  the  word  •'  Amen,"  intro 
duced  in  some  suitable  place. 

But  the  only  spot  now  left  vacant  was  one  of  a  few 
square  inches,  located  just  where  the  coat-tails  hung 
over  the  end  of  Peter's  spine  ;  so  that  when  any  one 
stood  full  in  Peter's  rear,  he  could  but  marvel  at  the 
sight  of  so  solemn  a  word  emblazoned  in  so  unusual  a 
locality. 

Panoplied  in  this  robe  of  righteousness,  and  with  a 
worn  leathern  Bible  in  his  hand.  Peter  used  to  go  around 
of  Sundays,  and  during  the  week,  by  night,  preaching 
from  cabin  to  cabin  the  gospel  of  his  heavenly  Master. 

The  angriest  lightnings  of  the  sultriest  skies  often 
played  amid  the  darkness  upon  those  sacred  coat-tails 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         107 

and  around  that  girdle  of  everlasting  texts,  as  though 
the  evil  spirits  of  the  air  would  fain  have  burned  them 
and  scattered  their  ashes  on  the  roaring  winds.  The 
slow-sifting  snows  of  winter  whitened  them  as  though 
to  chill  their  spiritual  fires ;  but  winter  and  summer, 
year  after  year,  in  weariness  of  body,  often  in  sore 
distress  of  mind,  for  miles  along  this  lonely  road  and 
for  miles  across  that  rugged  way,  Peter  trudged  on 
and  on,  withal  perhaps  as  meek  a  spirit  as  ever  grew 
foot  sore  in  the  paths  of  its  Master.  Many  a  poor  over 
burdened  slave  took  fresh  heart  and  strength  from  the 
sight  of  that  celestial  raiment ;  many  a  stubborn,  rebel 
lious  spirit,  whose  flesh  but  lately  quivered  under  the 
lash,  was  brought  low  by  its  humble  teaching ;  many  a 
worn-out  old  frame,  racked  with  pain  in  its  last  illness, 
pressed  a  fevered  lip  to  its  hopeful  hem ;  and  many  a 
dying  eye  closed  in  death  peacefully  fixed  on  its  immor 
tal  pledges. 

When  Peter  started  abroad,  if  a  storm  threatened,  he 
carried  an  old  cotton  umbrella  of  immense  size ;  and  as 
the  storm  burst,  he  gathered  the  tails  of  his  coat  care 
fully  up  under  his  armpits  that  they  might  be  kept 
dry.  Or  if  caught  by  a  tempest  without  his  umbrella,  he 
would  take  his  coat  off  and  roll  it  up  inside  out,  leaving 
his  body  exposed  to  the  fury  of  the  elements.  No  care, 
however,  could  keep  it  from  growing  old  and  worn  and 
faded ;  and  when  the  slaves  were  set  free  and  he  was 
called  upon  by  the  interposition  of  Providence  to  lay  it 
finally  aside,  it  was  covered  by  many  a  patch  and  stain 
as  proofs  of  its  devoted  usage. 

One  after  another  the  colonel's  old  servants,  gather 
ing  their  children  about  them,  had  left  him,  to  begin 
their  new  life.  He  bade  them  all  a  kind  good-bye,  and 


I08  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

into  the  palm  of  each  silently  pressed  some  gift  that  he 
knew  would  soon  be  needed.  But  no  inducement  could 
make  Peter  or  Phillis,  his  wife,  budge  from  their  cabin. 
"  Go,  Peter !  Go,  Phillis  !"  the  colonel  had  said  time 
and  again.  "  No  one  is  happier  that  you  are  free  than 
I  am  ;  and  you  can  call  on  me  for  what  you  need  to  set 
you  up  in  business/'  But  Peter  and  Phillis  asked  to 
stay  with  him.  Then  suddenly,  several  months  before 
the  time  at  which  this  sketch  opens,  Phillis  had  died, 
leaving  the  colonel  and  Peter  as  the  only  relics  of  that 
populous  life  which  had  once  filled  the  house  and  the  cab 
ins.  The  colonel  had  succeeded  in  hiring  a  woman  to 
do  Phillis's  work  ;  but  her  presence  was  a  strange  note  of 
discord  in  the  old  domestic  harmony,  and  only  saddened 
the  recollections  of  its  vanished  peace. 

Peter  had  a  short,  stout  figure,  dark-  brown  skin, 
smooth  -  shaven  face,  eyes  round,  deep  -  set  and  wide 
apart,  and  a  short,  stub  nose  which  dipped  suddenly 
into  his  head,  making  it  easy  for  him  to  wear  the  silver- 
rimmed  spectacles  left  him  by  his  old  mistress.  A  pe 
culiar  conformation  of  the  muscles  between  the  eyes 
and  the  nose  gave  him  the  quizzical  expression  of  one 
who  is  about  to  sneeze,  and  this  was  heightened  by  a 
twinkle  in  the  eyes  which  seemed  caught  from  the 
shining  of  an  inner  sun  upon  his  tranquil  heart. 

Sometimes,  however,  his  face  grew  sad  enough.  It 
was  sad  on  this  afternoon  while  he  watched  the  colonel 
walk  slowly  up  the  pavement,  well  overgrown  with 
weeds,  and  enter  the  house,  which  the  setting  sun 
touched  with  the  last  radiance  of  the  finished  day. 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY.  109 


NEW  LIFE. 

About  two  years  after  the  close  of  the  war,  therefore, 
the  colonel  and  Peter  were  to  be  found  in  Lexington, 
ready  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  in  the  volumes  of  'their 
lives,  which  already  had  an  old  -  fashioned  binding,  a 
somewhat  musty  odor,  and  but  few  unwritten  leaves 
remaining. 

After  a  long,  dry  summer  you  may  have  seen  two 
gnarled  old  apple-trees,  that  stood  with  interlocked 
arms  on  the  western  slope  of  some  quiet  hill-side,  make 
a  melancholy  show  of  blooming  out  again  in  the  au 
tumn  of  the  year  and  dallying  with  the  idle  buds  that 
mock  their  sapless  branches.  Much  the  same  was 
the  belated,  fruitless  efflorescence  of  the  colonel  and 
Peter. 

The  colonel  had  no  business  habits,  no  political  am 
bition,  no  wish  to  grow  richer.  He  was  too  old  for  so 
ciety,  and  without  near  family  ties.  For  some  time  he 
wandered  through  the  streets  like  one  lost — sick  with 
yearning  for  the  fields  and  woods,  for  his  cattle,  for 
familiar  faces.  He  haunted  Cheapside  and  the  court 
house  square,  where  the  farmers  always  assembled  when 
they  came  to  town ;  and  if  his  eye  lighted  on  one,  he 
would  button-hole  him  on  the  street-corner  and  lead 
him  into  a  grocery  and  sit  down  for  a  quiet  chat.  Some 
times  he  would  meet  an  aimless,  melancholy  wanderer 
like  himself,  and  the  two  would  go  off  and  discuss  over 
and  over  again  their  departed  days ;  and  several  times 
he  came  unexpectedly  upon  some  of  his  old  servants 
who  had  fallen  into  bitter  want,  and  who  more  than  re 
paid  him  for  the  help  he  gave  by  contrasting  the  hard- 


110  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

ships  of  a  life  of  freedom  with  the  ease  of  their  shackled 
years. 

In  the  course  of  time,  he  could  but  observe  that  hu 
man  life  in  the  town  was  reshaping  itself  slowly  and 
painfully,  but  with  resolute  energy.  The  colossal  struct 
ure  of  slavery  had  fallen,  scattering  its  ruins  far  and 
wide  over  the  State  ;  but  out  of  the  very  debris  was  be 
ing  taken  the  material  to  lay  the  deeper  foundations  of 
the  new  social  edifice.  Men  and  women  as  old  as  he 
were  beginning  life  over  and  trying  to  fit  themselves  for 
it  by  changing  the  whole  attitude  and  habit  of  their 
minds— by  taking  on  a  new  heart  and  spirit.  But  when 
a  great  building  falls,  there  is  always  some  rubbish, 
and  the  colonel  and  others  like  him  were  part  of  this. 
Henceforth  they  possessed  only  an  antiquarian  sort  of 
interest,  like  the  stamped  bricks  of  Nebuchadnezzar. 

Nevertheless  he  made  a  show  of  doing  something, 
and  in  a  year  or  two  opened  on  Cheapside  a  store  for 
the  sale  of  hardware  and  agricultural  implements.  He 
knew  more  about  the  latter  than  anything  else  ;  and, 
furthermore,  he  secretly  felt  that  a  business  of  this  kind 
would  enable  him  to  establish  in  town  a  kind  of  head 
quarters  for  the  farmers.  His  account-books  were  to 
be  kept  on  a  system  of  twelve  months'  credit ;  and  he 
resolved  that  if  one  of  his  customers  couldn't  pay  then, 
it  would  make  no  difference. 

Business  began  slowly.  The  farmers  dropped  in  and 
found  a  good  lounging-place.  On  county-court  days, 
which  were  great  market-days  for  the  sale  of  sheep, 
horses,  mules,  and  cattle  in  front  of  the  colonel's  door, 
they  swarmed  in  from  the  hot  sun  and  sat  around  on 
the  counter  and  the  ploughs  and  machines  till  the  en 
trance  was  blocked  to  other  customers. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.        Ill 

When  a  customer  did  come  in,  the  colonel,  who  was 
probably  talking  with  some  old  acquaintance,  would 
tell  him  just  to  look  around  and  pick  out  what  he 
wanted  and  the  price  would  be  all  right.  If  one  of 
those  acquaintances  asked  for  a  pound  of  nails,  the 
colonel  would  scoop  up  some  ten  pounds  and  say, 
"  I  reckon  that's  about  a  pound,  Tom."  He  had  never 
seen  a  pound  of  nails  in  his  life ;  and  if  one  had  been 
weighed  on  his  scales,  he  would  have  said  the  scales 
were  wrong. 

He  had  no  great  idea  of  commercial  despatch.  One 
morning  a  lady  came  in  for  some  carpet-tacks,  an  arti 
cle  that  he  had  forgotten  to  lay  in.  But  he  at  once  sent 
off  an  order  for  enough  to  have  tacked  a  carpet  pretty 
well  all  over  Kentucky  ;  and  when  they  came,  two  weeks 
later,  he  told  Peter  to  take  her  up  a  dozen  papers  with 
his  compliments.  He  had  laid  in,  however,  an  ample 
and  especially  fine  assortment  of  pocket-knives,  for  that 
instrument  had  always  been  to  him  one  of  gracious  and 
very  winning  qualities.  Then  when  a  friend  dropped 
in  he  would  say,  "  General,  don't  you  need  a  new  pocket- 
knife?"  and,  taking  out  one,  would  open  all  the  blades 
and  commend  the  metal  and  the  handle.  The  ''gen 
eral  "  would  inquire  the  price,  and  the  colonel,  having 
shut  the  blades,  would  hand  it  to  him,  saying  in  a  care 
less,  fond  way,  "I  reckon  I  won't  charge  you  anything 
for  that."  His  mind  could  not  come  down  to  the  low 
level  of  such  ignoble  barter,  and  he  gave  away  the  whole 
case  of  knives. 

These  were  the  pleasanter  aspects  of  his  business  life 
which  did  not  lack  as  well  its  tedium  and  crosses.  Thus 
there  were  many  dark  stormy  days  when  no  one  he 
cared  to  see  came  in :  and  he  then  became  rather  a 


112  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

pathetic  figure,  wandering  absently  around  amid  the 
symbols  of  his  past  activity,  and  stroking  the  ploughs, 
like  dumb  companions.  Or  he  would  stand  at  the  door 
and  look  across  at  the  old  court-house,  where  he  had 
seen  many  a  slave  sold  and  had  listened  to  the  great 
Kentucky  orators. 

But  what  hurt  him  most  was  the  talk  of  the  new 
farming  and  the  abuse  of  the  old  which  he  was  forced 
to  hear;  and  he  generally  refused  to  handle  the  im 
proved  implements  and  mechanical  devices  by  which 
labor  and  waste  were  to  be  saved.  . 

Altogether  he  grew  tired  of  "  the  thing,"  and  sold  out 
at  the  end  of  the  year  with  a  loss  of  over  a  thousand 
dollars,,  though  he  insisted  he  had  done  a  good  business. 

As  he  was  then  seen  much  on  the  streets  again  and 
several  times  heard  to  make  remarks  in  regard  to  the 
sidewalks,  gutters,  and  crossings,  when  they  happened 
to  be  in  bad  condition,  the  Daily  Press  one  morning 
published  a  card  stating  that  if  Colonel  Romulus  Fields 
would  consent  to  make  the  race  for  mayor  he  would 
receive  the  support  of  many  Democrats,  adding  a  trib 
ute  to  his  virtues  and  his  influential  past  It  touched 
the  colonel,  and  he  walked  down -town  with  a  rather 
commanding  figure  the  next  morning.  But  it  pained 
him  to  see  how  many  of  his  acquaintances  returned 
his  salutations  very  coldly ;  and  just  as  he  was  passing 
the  Northern  Bank  he  met  the  young  opposition  candi 
date — a  little  red-haired  fellow,  walking  between  two 
ladies,  with  a  rose-bud  in  his  button-hole — who  refused 
to  speak  at  all,  but  made  the  ladies  laugh  by  some  re 
mark  he  uttered  as  the  colonel  passed.  The  card  had 
been  inserted  humorously,  but  he  took  it  seriously ;  and 
when  his  friends  found  this  out,  they  rallied  round  him. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         113 

The  day  of  election  drew  near.  They  told  him  he  must 
buy  votes.  He  said  he  wouldn't  buy  a  vote  to  be  mayor 
of  the  New  Jerusalem.  They  told  him  he  must  "mix" 
and  "treat."  He  refused.  Foreseeing  he  had  no  chance, 
they  besought  him  to  withdraw.  He  said  he  would  not. 
They  told  him  he  wouldn't  poll  twenty  votes.  He  re 
plied  that  one  would  satisfy  him,  provided  it  was  neither 
begged  nor  bought.  When  his  defeat  was  announced, 
he  accepted  it  as  another  evidence  that  he  had  no  part 
in  the  present — no  chance  of  redeeming  his  idleness. 

A  sense  of  this  weighed  heavily  on  him  at  times  ;  but 
it  is  not  likely  that  he  realized  how  pitifully  he  was  un 
dergoing  a  moral  shrinkage  in  consequence  of  mere  dis 
use.  Actually,  extinction  had  set  in  with  him  long 
prior  to  dissolution,  and  he  was  dead  years  before  his 
heart  ceased  beating.  The  very  basic  virtues  on  which 
had  rested  his  once  spacious  and  stately  character  were 
now  but  the  mouldy  corner-stones  of  a  crumbling  ruin. 

It  was  a  subtle  evidence  of  deterioration  in  manliness 
that  he  hnd  taken  to  dress.  When  he  had  lived  in  the 
country,  he  had  never  dressed  up  unless  he  came  to 
town.  When  he  had  moved  to  town,  he  thought  he 
must  remain  dressed  up  all  the  time ;  and  this  fact  first 
fixed  his  attention  on  a  matter  which  afterwards  began 
to  be  loved  for  its  own  sake.  Usually  he  wore  a  Derby 
hat,  a  black  diagonal  coat,  gray  trousers,  and  a  white 
necktie.  But  the  article  of  attire  in  which  he  took  chief 
pleasure  was  hose  ;  and  the  better  to  show  the  gay  col 
ors  of  these,  he  wore  low-cut  shoes  of  the  finest  calf 
skin,  turned  up  at  the  toes.  Thus  his  feet  kept  pace 
with  the  present,  however  far  his  head  may  have  lagged 
in  the  past ;  and  it  may  be  that  this  stream  of  fresh 
fashions,  flowing  perennially  over  his  lower  extremities 


114        'I' WO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY. 

like  water  about  the  roots  of  a  tree,  kept  him  from  dry 
ing  up  altogether. 

Peter  always  polished  his  shoes  with  too  much  black 
ing,  perhaps  thinking  that  the  more  the  blacking  the 
greater  the  proof  of  love.  He  wore  his  clothes  about  a 
season  and  a  half  —  having  several  suits  —  and  then 
passed  them  on  to  Peter,  who,  foreseeing  the  joy  of 
such  an  inheritance,  bought  no  new  ones.  In  the  act 
of  transferring  them  the  colonel  made  no  comment  un 
til  he  came  to  the  hose,  from  which  he  seemed  unable 
to  part  without  a  final  tribute  of  esteem,  as  :  "  These 
are  fine,  Peter ;"  or,  "  Peter,  these  are  nearly  as  good 
as  new."  Thus  Peter,  too,  was  dragged  through  the 
whims  of  fashion.  To  have  seen  the  colonel  walking 
about  his  grounds  and  garden  followed  by  Peter,  just  a 
year  and  a  half  behind  in  dress  and  a  yard  and  a  half 
behind  in  space,  one  might  well  have  taken  the  rear  fig 
ure  for  the  colonel's  double,  slightly  the  worse  for  wear, 
somewhat  shrunken,  and  cast  into  a  heavy  shadow. 

Time  hung  so  heavily  on  his  hands  at  night  that  with 
a  happy  inspiration  he  added  a  dress  suit  to  his  ward 
robe,  and  accepted  the  first  invitation  to  an  evening 
party. 

He  grew  excited  as  the  hour  approached,  and  dressed 
in  a  great  fidget  for  fear  he  should  be  too  late. 

"  How  do  I  look,  Peter  ?"  he  inquired  at  length,  sur 
prised  at  his  own  appearance. 

"  Splendid,  Marse  Rom,"  replied  Peter,  bringing  in 
the  shoes  with  more  blacking  on  them  than  ever  before. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  colonel,  apologetically — "  I  think 
I'd  look  better  if  I'd  put  a  little  powder  on.  I  don't 
know  what  makes  me  so  red  in  the  face." 

But  his  heart  began  to  sink  before  he  reached  his 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.        115 

hostess's,  and  he  had  a  fearful  sense  of  being  the  ob 
served  of  all  observers  as  he  slipped  through  the  hall 
and  passed  rapidly  up  to  the  gentlemen's  room.  He 
stayed  there  after  the  others  had  gone  down,  bewil 
dered  and  lonely,  dreading  to  go  down  himself.  By- 
and-by  the  musicians  struck  up  a  waltz,  and  with  a 
little  cracked  laugh  at  his  own  performance  he  cut  a 
few  shines  of  an  unremembered  pattern ;  but  his  ankles 
snapped  audibly,  and  he  suddenly  stopped  with  the 
thought  of  what  Peter  would  say  if  he  should  catch  him 
at  these  antics.  Then  he  boldly  went  down-stairs. 

He  had  touched  the  new  human  life  around  him  at 
various  points :  as  he  now  stretched  out  his  arms 
towards  its  society,  for  the  first  time  he  completely  re 
alized  how  far  removed  it  was  from  him.  Here  he  saw 
a  younger  generation  —  the  flowers  of  the  new  social 
order  —  sprung  from  the  very  soil  of  fraternal  battle 
fields,  but  blooming  together  as  the  emblems  of  oblivi 
ous  peace.  He  saw  fathers,  who  had  fought  madly  on 
opposite  sides,  talking  quietly  in  corners  as  they  watched 
their  children  dancing,  or  heard  them  toasting  their  old 
generals  and  their  campaigns  over  their  champagne  in 
the  supper-room.  He  was  glad  of  it ;  but  it  made  him 
feel,  at  the  same  time,  that,  instead  of  treading  the 
velvety  floors,  he  ought  to  step  up  and  take  his  place 
among  the  canvases  of  old-time  portraits  that  looked 
down  from  the  walls. 

The  dancing  he  had  done  had  been  not  under  the 
blinding  glare  of  gaslight,  but  by  the  glimmer  of  tallow- 
dips  and  star-candles  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  cavernous 
firesides — not  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  orchestia  of 
wind-instruments  and  strings,  but  to  a  chorus  of  girls' 
sweet  voices,  as  they  trod  simpler  measures,  or  to  the 


Il6  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

maddening  sway  of  a  gray-haired  negro  fiddler  standing 
on  a  chair  in  the  chimney  corner.  Still,  it  is  signifi 
cant  to  note  that  his  saddest  thought,  long  after  leaving, 
was  that  his  shirt  bosom  had  not  lain  down  smooth,  but 
stuck  out  like  a  huge  cracked  egg-shell ;  and  that  when, 
in  imitation  of  the  others,  he  had  laid  his  white  silk 
handkerchief  across  his  bosom  inside  his  vest,  it  had 
slipped  out  during  the  evening,  and  had  been  found  by 
him,  on  confronting  a  mirror,  flapping  over  his  stomach 
like  a  little  white  masonic  apron. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  time,  Marse  Rom  ?"  inquired 
Peter,  as  they  drove  home  through  the  darkness. 

"  Splendid  time,  Peter,  splendid  time,"  replied  the 
colonel,  nervously. 

"  Did  you  dance  any,  Marse  Rom  ?" 

"I  didn't  dance.  Oh,  I  could  have  danced  if  I'd  want 
ed  to  ;  but  I  didn't." 

Peter  helped  the  colonel  out  of  the  carriage  with  pity 
ing  gentleness  when  they  reached  home.  It  was  the  first 
and  only  party. 

Peter  also  had  been  finding  out  that  his  occupation 
was  gone. 

Soon  after  moving  to  town,  he  had  tendered  his  pas 
toral  services  to  one  of  the  fashionable  churches  of  the 
city — not  because  it  was  fashionable,  but  because  it 
was  made  up  of  his  brethren.  In  reply  he  was  invited 
to  preach  a  trial  sermon,  which  he  did  with  gracious 
unction. 

It  was  a  strange  scene,  as  one  calm  Sunday  morning 
he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pulpit,  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
the  colonel's  old  clothes,  with  one  hand  in  his  trousers- 
pocket,  and  his  lame  leg  set  a  little  forward  at  an  angle 
familiar  to  those  who  know  the  statues  of  Henry  Clay. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         117 

How  self-possessed  he  seemed,  yet  with  what  a  rush 
of  memories  did  he  pass  his  eyes  slowly  over  that  vast 
assemblage  of  his  emancipated  people !  With  what 
feelings  must  he  have  contrasted  those  silk  hats,  and 
walking-canes,  and  broadcloths ;  those  gloves  and  sat 
ins,  laces  and  feathers,  jewelry  and  fans — that  whole 
many-colored  panorama  of  life  —  with  the  weary,  sad, 
and  sullen  audiences  that  had  often  heard  him  of  old 
under  the  forest  trees  or  by  the  banks  of  some  turbulent 
stream ! 

In  a  voice  husky,  but  heard  beyond  the  flirtation  of 
the  uttermost  pew,  he  took  his  text .  "  Consider  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  how  they  grow ;  they  toil  not,  neither 
do  they  spin."  From  this  he  tried  to  preach  a  new  ser 
mon,  suited  to  the  newer  day.  But  several  times  the 
thoughts  of  the  past  were  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
broke  down  with  emotion. 

The  next  day  a  grave  committee  waited  on  him  and 
reported  that  the  sense  of  the  congregation  was  to  call 
a  colored  gentleman  from  Louisville.  Private  objections 
to  Peter  were  that  he  had  a  broken  leg,  wore  Colonel 
Fields's  second-hand  clothes,  which  were  too  big  for 
him,  preached  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  and  lacked 
self-control  and  repose  of  manner. 

Peter  accepted  his  rebuff  as  sweetly  as  Socrates 
might  have  done.  Humming  the  burden  of  an  old  hymn, 
he  took  his  righteous  coat  from  a  nail  in  the  wall  and 
folded  it  away  in  a  little  brass-nailed  deer-skin  trunk, 
laying  over  it  the  spelling-book  and  the  Pilgrim 's  Prog 
ress,  which  he  had  ceased  to  read.  Thenceforth  his 
relations  to  his  people  were  never  intimate,  and  even 
from  the  other  servants  of  the  colonel's  household  he 
stood  apart.  JBut  the  colonel  took  Peter's  rejection 


Il8         TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY. 

greatly  to  heart,  and  the  next  morning  gave  him  the 
new  silk  socks  he  had  worn  at  the  party.  In  paying  his 
servants  the  colonel  would  sometimes  say,  "  Peter,  I 
reckon  I'd  better  begin  to  pay  you  a  salary ;  that's  the 
style  now."  But  Peter  would  turn  off,  saying  he  didn't 
"  have  no  use  fur  no  salary." 

Thus  both  of  them  dropped  more  and  more  out  of 
life,  but  as  they  did  so  drew  more  and  more  closely  to 
each  other.  The  colonel  had  bought  a  home  on  the 
edge  of  the  town,  with  some  ten  acres  of  beautiful  ground 
surrounding.  A  high  osage-orange  hedge  shut  it  in, 
and  forest  trees,  chiefly  maples  and  elms,  gave  to  the 
lawn  and  house  abundant  shade.  AYild-grape  vines,  the 
Virginia-creeper,  and  the  climbing-oak  swung  their  long 
festoons  from  summit  to  summit,  while  honeysuckles, 
clematis,  and  the  Mexican-vine  clambered  over  arbors 
and  trellises,  or  along  the  chipped  stone  of  the  low, 
old-fashioned  house.  Just  outside  the  door  of  the  colo 
nel's  bedroom  slept  an  ancient,  broken  sundial. 

The  place  seemed  always  in  half-shadow,  with  hedge 
rows  of  box,  clumps  of  dark  holly,  darker  firs  half  a  cen 
tury  old,  and  aged,  crape-like  cedars. 

It  was  in  the  seclusion  of  this  retreat,  which  looked 
almost  like  a  wild  bit  of  country  set  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  town,  that  the  colonel  and  Peter  spent  more  of 
their  time  as  they  fell  farther  in  the  rear  of  onward 
events.  There  were  no  such  flower-gardens  in  the  city, 
and  pretty  much  the  whole  town  went  thither  for  its 
flowers,  preferring  them  to  those  that  were  to  be  had 
for  a  price  at  the  nurseries. 

There  was,  perhaps,  a  suggestion  of  pathetic  humor  in 
the  fact  that  it  should  have  called  on  the  colonel  and 
Peter,  themselves  so  nearly  defunct,  to  furnish  the  flow- 


TWO  GENTLKMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         Iig 

ers  for  so  many  funerals  ;  but,  it  is  certain,  almost  week 
ly  the  two  old  gentlemen  received  this  chastening  ad 
monition  of  their  all-but-spent  mortality.  The  colonel 
cultivated  the  rarest  fruits  also,  and  had  under  glass 
varieties  that  were  not  friendly  to  the  climate ;  so  that 
by  means  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  there  was  established 
a  pleasant  social  bond  with  many  who  otherwise  would 
never  have  sought  them  out. 

But  others  came  for  better  reasons.  To  a  few  deep- 
seein0"  eves  the  colonel  and  Peter  were  ruined  landmarks 

O        J 

on  a  fading  historic  landscape,  and  their  devoted  friend 
ship  was  the  last  steady  burning-down  of  that  pure 
flame  of  love  which  can  never  again  shine  out  in  the 
future  of  the  two  races.  Hence  a  softened  charm  in 
vested  the  drowsy  quietuae  of  that  shadowy  paradise 
in  which  the  old  master  without  a  slave  and  the  old 
slave  without  a  master  still  kept  up  a  brave  pantomime 
of  their  obsolete  relations.  No  one  ever  saw  in  their 
intercourse  ought  but  the  finest  courtesy,  the  most  del 
icate  consideration.  The  very  tones  of  their  voices  in 
addressing  each  other  were  as  good  as  sermons  on  gen 
tleness,  their  antiquated  playfulness  as  melodious  as 
the  babble  of  distant  water.  To  be  near  them  was  to 
be  exorcised  of  evil  passions. 

The  sun  of  their  day  had  indeed  long  since  set ;  but 
like  twin  clouds  lifted  high  and  motionless  into  some 
far  quarter  of  the  gray  twilight  skies,  they  were  still  ra 
diant  with  the  glow  of  the  invisible  orb. 

Henceforth  the  colonel's  appearances  in  public  were 
few  and  regular.  He  went  to  church  on  Sundays, 
where  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  choir  in  the  centre  of 
the  building,  and  sang  an  ancient  bass  of  his  own  im 
provisation  to  the  older  hymns,  and  glanced  furtively 


120  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

around  to  see  whether  any  one  noticed  that  he  could  not 
sing  the  new  ones.  At  the  Sunday-school  picnics  the 
committee  of  arrangements  allowed  him  to  carve  the 
mutton,  and  after  dinner  to  swing  the  smallest  chil 
dren  gently  beneath  the  trees.  He  was  seen  on  Com 
mencement  Day  at  Morrison  Chapel,  where  he  always 
gave  his  bouquet  to  the  valedictorian.  It  was  the 
speech  of  that  young  gentleman  that  always  touched 
him,  consisting  as  it  did  of  farewells. 

In  the  autumn  he  might  sometimes  be  noticed  sitting 
high  up  in  the  amphitheatre  at  the  fair,  a  little  blue 
around  the  nose,  and  looking  absently  over  into  the 
ring  where  the  judges  were  grouped  around  the  music- 
stand.  Once  he  had  strutted  around  as  a  judge  him 
self,  with  a  blue  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  while  the 
band  played  "  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt,"  and  "  Gentle 
Annie."  The  ring  seemed  full  of  young  men  now,  and 
no  one  even  thought  of  offering  him  the  privileges  of 
the  grounds.  In  his  day  the  great  feature  of  the  ex 
hibition  had  been  cattle;  now  everything  was  turned 
into  a  horse- show.  He  was  always  glad  to  get  home 
again  to  Peter,  his  true  yoke-fellow.  For  just  as  two 
old  oxen — one  white  and  one  black— that  have  long 
toiled  under  the  same  yoke  will,  when  turned  out  to 
graze  at  last  in  the  widest  pasture,  come  and  put  them 
selves  horn  to  horn  and  flank  to  flank,  so  the  colonel  and 
Peter  were  never  so  happy  as  when  ruminating  side  by 
side. 

NEW  LOVE. 

In  their  eventless  life  the  slightest  incident  acquired 
the  importance  of  a  history.  Thus,  one  day  in  June, 
Peter  discovered  a  young  couple  love-making  in  the 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         121 

shrubbery,  and  with  the  deepest  agitation  reported  the 
fact  to  the  colonel. 

Never  before,  probably,  had  the  fluttering  of  the  dear 
god's  wings  brought  more  dismay  than  to  these  ancient 
involuntary  guardsmen  of  his  hiding-place.  The  colonel 
was  at  first  for  breaking  up  what  he  considered  a  piece 
of  underhand  proceedings,  but  Peter  reasoned  stoutly 
that  if  the  pair  were  driven  out  they  would  simply  go  to 
some  other  retreat ;  and  without  getting  the  approval  of 
his  conscience  to  this  view,  the  colonel  contented  him 
self  with  merely  repeating  that  they  ought  to  go  straight 
and  tell  the  girl's  parents.  Those  parents  lived  just 
across  the  street  outside  his  grounds.  The  young  lady 
he  knew  very  well  himself,  having  a  few  years  before 
given  her  the  privilege  of  making  herself  at  home  among 
his  flowers.  It  certainly  looked  hard  to  drive  her  out 
now,  just  when  she  was  making  the  best  possible  use  of 
his  kindness  and  her  opportunity.  Moreover,  Peter 
walked  down  street  and  ascertained  that  the  young  fel 
low  was  an  energetic  farmer  living  a  few  miles  from 
town,  and  son  of  one  of  the  colonel's  former  friends;  on 
both  of  which  accounts  the  latter's  heart  went  out  to 
him.  So  when,  a  few  days  later,  the  colonel,  followed 
by  Peter,  crept  up  breathlessly  and  peeped  through  the 
bushes  at  the  pair  strolling  along  the  shady  perfumed 
walks,  and  so  plainly  happy  in  that  happiness  which 
comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime,  they  not  only  abandoned 
the  idea  of  betraying  the  secret,  but  afterwards  kept 
away  from  that  part  of  the  grounds,  lest  they  should  be 
an  interruption. 

"  Peter,"  stammered  the  colonel,  who  had  been  try 
ing  to  get  the  words  out  for  three  days,  "  do  you  sup 
pose  he  has  already — asked  her?" 


122  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

"  Some's  pow'ful  quick  on  de  trigger,  en  some's 
mighty  slow,"  replied  Peter,  neutrally.  "  En  some,"  he 
added,  exhaustively,  "don't  use  de  trigger  't  all !" 

"  I  always  thought  there  had  to  be  asking  done  by 
somebody"  remarked  the  colonel,  a  little  vaguely. 

"  I  nuver  axed  Phillis !"  exclaimed  Peter,  with  a  cer 
tain  air  of  triumph. 

"Did  Phillis  ask  you,  Peter?"  inquired  the  colonel, 
blushing  and  confidential. 

"  No,  no,  Marse  Rom  !  I  couldn't  er  stood  dat  from 
no  'oman !"  replied  Peter,  laughing  and  shaking  his 
head. 

The  colonel  was  sitting  on  the  stone  steps  in  front  of 
the  house,  and  Peter  stood  below,  leaning  against  a 
Corinthian  column,  hat  in  hand,  as  he  went  on  to  tell 
his  love-story. 

"  Hit  all  happ'n  dis  way,  Marse  Rom.  We  wuz  gwine 
have  pra'r-meetin',  en  I  'lowed  to  walk  home  wid  Phillis 
en  ax  'er  on  de  road.  I  been  'lowin'  to  ax  'er  heap  o' 
times  befo',  but  I  ain'  jes  nuver  done  so.  So  I  says  to 
myse'f,  says  I,  '  I  jes  mek  my  sermon  to-night  kiner  lead 
up  to  whut  I  gwine  tell  Phillis  on  de  road  home.'  So  I 
tuk  my  tex'  from  de  lef  tail  o'  my  coat :  '  De  greates'  o' 
dese  is  charity;'  caze  I  knowed  charity  wuz  same  ez 
love.  En  all  de  time  I  wuz  preachin'  an'  glorifyin' 
charity  en  identifyin'  charity  wid  love,  I  couldn'  he'p 
thinkin'  'bout  what  I  gwine  say  to  Phillis  on  de  road 
home.  Dat  mek  me  feel  better  ;  en  de  better  \  feel,  de 
better  I  preach,  so  hit  boun'  to  mek  my  heahehs  feel  bet 
ter  likewise — Phillis  'mong  um.  So  Phillis  she  jes  sot 
dah  listenin'  en  listenin'  en  lookin'  like  we  wuz  a'ready 
on  de  road  home,  till  I  got  so  wuked  up  in  my  feelin's  I 
jes  knowed  de  time  wuz  come.  By-en-by,  I  had  n'  mo' 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.         123 

'n  done  preachin'  en  wuz  lookin'  roun'  to  git  my  Bible 
en  my  hat,  'fo'  up  popped  dat  big  Charity  Green,  who 
been  settin'  'longside  o'  Phillis  en  tekin'  ev'y  las'  thing  I 
said  to  /lerse'f.  En  she  tuk  hole  o'  my  han'  en  squeeze 
it,  en  say  she  felt  mos'  like  shoutin'.  En  'fo'  I  knowed 
it,  I  jes  see  Phillis  wrap  'er  shawl  roun'  'er  head  en  tu'n 
'er  nose 'up  at  me  right  quick  en  flip  out  de  dooh.  De 
dogs  howl  mighty  mou'nful  when  I  walk  home  by  my- 
se'f  dat  night,"  added  Peter,  laughing  to  himself,  "  en  I 
ain' preach  dat  sermon  no  mo'  tell  atter  me  en. Phillis 
wuz  married. 

"  Hit  wuz  long  time,"  he  continued,  "  'fo'  Phillis  come 
to  heah  me  preach  any  mo'.  But  'long  'bout  de  nex' 
fall  we  had  big  meetin',  en  heap  mo'  urn  j'ined.  But 
Phillis,  she  ain't  nuver  j'ined  yit.  I  preached  mighty 
nigh  all  roun'  my  coat-tails  till  I  say  to  myse'f,  D'  ain't 
but  one  tex'  lef ,  en  I  jes  got  to  fetch  'er  wid  dat !  De 
tex'  wuz  on  de  right  tail  o'  my  coat :  ' Come  unto  me, 
all  ye  dat  labor «en  is  heavy  laden.'  Hit  wuz  a  ve'y  mo 
mentous  sermon,  en  all  'long  I  jes  see  Phillis  wras'lin' 
wid  'erse'f,  en  I  say, '  She  gat  to  come  dis  night,  de 
Lohd  he'pin'  me.'  En  I  had  n'  mo'  'n  said  de  word,  'fo' 
she  jes  walked  down  en  guv  me  'er  han'. 

"  Den  we  had  de  baptizin'  in  Elkhorn  Creek,  en  de 
waiter  wuz  deep  en  de  curren'  tol'ble  swif.  Hit  look  to 
me  like  dere  wuz  five  hundred  uv  um  on  de  creek  side. 
By-en-by  I  stood  on  de  edge  o'  de  watter,  en  Phillis  she 
come  down  to  let  me  baptize  'er.  En  me  en  'er  j'ined 
han's  en  waded  out  in  the  creek,  mighty  slow,  caze 
Phillis  didn'  have  no  shot  roun'  de  bottom  uv  'er  dress, 
en  it  kep'  bobbin'  on  top  de  watter  till  I  pushed  it  down. 
But  by-en-by  we  got  'way  out  in  de  creek,  en  bof  uv  us 
wuz  tremblin'.  En  I  says  to  'er  ve'y  kin'ly, 'When  I 


124  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

put  you  un'er  de  watter,  Phillis,  you  mus'  try  en  hole 
yo'se'f  stiff,  so  I  can  lif  you  up  easy.'  But  I  hadn't 
mo'  'n  jes  got  'er  laid  back  over  de  watter  ready  to 
souze  'er  un'er  when  'er  feet  flew  up  off  de  bottom  uv 
de  creek,  en  when  I  retched  out  to  fetch  'er  up,  I  stepped 
in  a  hole  ;  en  ;fo'  I  knowed  it,  we  wuz  flounderin'  roun» 
in  de  watter,  en  de  hymn  dey  was  singin'  on  de 
bank  sounded  mighty  confused -like.  En  Phillis  she 
swallowed  some  watter,  en  all  't  oncet  she  jes  grap 
me  rigJit  tight  roun'  de  neck,  en  say  mighty  quick, 
says  she,  '  I  gwine  marry  whoever  gits  me  out'n  dis  yere 
watter !' 

"  En  by-en-by,  when  me  en  'er  wuz  walkin'  up  de 
bank  o'  de  creek,  drippin'  all  over,  I  says  to  'er,  says  I  : 

"'Does  you  'member  what  you  said  back  yon'er  in 
de  watter,  Phillis  ?' 

•' '  I  ain'  out'n  no  watter  yit,'  says  she,  ve'y  con 
temptuous. 

" '  When  does  you  consider  yo'se'f  out'n  de  watter  ?' 
says  I,  ve'y  humble. 

'"When  I  git  dese  soakin'  clo'es  off'n  my  back,' 
says  she. 

"  Hit  wuz  good  dark  when  we  got  home,  en  atter  a 
while  I  crope  up  to  de  dooh  o'  Phillis's  cabin  en  put 
my  eye  down  to  de  key-hole,  en  see  Phillis  jes  settin' 
'fo'  dem  blazin'  walnut  logs  dressed  up  in  'er  new  red 
linsey  dress,  en  'er  eyes  shinin'.  En  I  shuk  so  I  'mos' 
faint.  Den  I  tap  easy  on  de  dooh,  en  say  in  a  mighty 
tremblin'  tone,  says  I : 

"  '  Is  you  out'n  de  watter  yit,  Phillis?' 

"  '  I  got  on  dry  dress,'  says  she. 

" '  Does  you  'member  what  you  said  back  yon'er  in 
de  watter,  Phillis  ?'  says  I. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.        125 

" '  De  latch-string  on  de  outside  de  dooh,'  says  she, 
mighty  sof. 

"  En  I  walked  in." 

As  Peter  drew  near  the  end  of  this  reminiscence,  his 
voice  sank  to  a  key  of  inimitable  tenderness  ;  and  when 
it  was  ended  he  stood  a  few  minutes,  scraping  the  gravel 
with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  his  head  dropped  forward. 
Then  he  added,  huskily : 

"  Phillis  been  dead  heap  o' years  now;"  and  turned 
away. 

This  recalling  of  the  scenes  of  a  time  long  gone  by 
may  have  awakened  in  the  breast  of  the  colonel  some 
gentle  memory ;  for  after  Peter  was  gone  he  continued 
to  sit  a  while  in  silent  musing.  Then  getting  up,  he 
walked  in  the  falling  twilight  across  the  yard  and 
through  the  gardens  until  he  came  to  a  secluded  spot 
in  the  most  distant  corner.  There  he  stooped  or  rath 
er  knelt  down  and  passed  his  hands,  as  though  with 
mute  benediction,  over  a  little  bed  of  old-fashioned 
China  pinks.  When  he  had  moved  in  from  the  country 
he  had  brought  nothing  away  from  his  mother's  garden 
but  these,  and  in  all  the  years  since  no  one  had  ever 
pulled  them,  as  Peter  well  knew ;  for  one  day  the 
colonel  had  said,  with  his  face  turned  away : 

"  Let  them  have  all  the  flowers  they  want ;  but  leave 
the  pinks." 

He  continued  kneeling  over  them  now,  touching  them 
softly  with  his  ringers,  as  though  they  were  the  fragrant, 
never-changing  symbols  of  voiceless  communion  with 
his  past.  Still  it  may  have  been  only  the  early  dew  of 
the  evening  that  glistened  on  them  when  he  rose  and 
slowly  walked  away,  leaving  the  pale  moonbeams  to 
haunt  the  spot. 


126  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

Certainly  after  this  day  he  showed  increasing  con 
cern  in  the  young  lovers  who  were  holding  clandestine 
meetings  in  his  grounds. 

"  Peter,"  he  would  say,  "  why,  if  they  love  each  other, 
don't  they  get  married  ?  Something  may  happen." 

"  I  been  spectin'  some'n'  to  happ'n  fur  some  time,  ez 
dey  been  quar'lin'  right  smart  lately,"  replied  Peter, 
laughing. 

Whether  or  not  he  was  justified  in  this  prediction, 
before  the  end  of  another  week  the  colonel  read  a  no 
tice  of  their  elopement  and  marriage  ;  and  several  clays 
later  he  came  up  from  down-town  and  told  Peter  that 
everything  had  been  forgiven  the  young  pair,  who  had 
gone  to  house-keeping  in  the  country.  It  gave  him 
pleasure  to  think  he  had  helped  to  perpetuate  the  race 
of  blue-grass  farmers. 


THE    YEARNING  PASSED    AWAY. 

It  was  in  the  twilight  of  a  late  autumn  day  in  the 
same  year  that  nature  gave  the  colonel  the  first  direct 
intimation  to  prepare  for  the  last  summons.  They  had 
been  passing  along  the  garden  walks,  where  a  few  pale 
flowers  were  trying  to  flourish  up  to  the  very  winter's 
edge,  and  where  the  dry  leaves  had  gathered  unswept 
and  rustled  beneath  their  feet.  All  at  once  the  colonel 
turned  to  Peter,  who  was  a  yard  and  a  half  behind,  as 
usual,  and  said  : 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  Peter,  I  feel  tired  ;"  and  thus  the 
two,  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  lifetime  walking 
abreast,  passed  slowly  on. 

"Peter, "said  the  colonel,  gravely,  a  minute  or  two 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.        127 

later,  "we  are  like  two  dried-up  stalks  of  fodder.  I 
wonder  the  Lord  lets  us  live  any  longer." 

"  I  reck'n  He's  managin'  to  use  us  some  way,  or  we 
wouldn'  be  heah,"  said  Peter. 

"  Well,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  if  He's  using  me,  He 
can't  be  in  much  of  a  hurry  for  his  work,"  replied  the 
colonel. 

"  He  uses  snails,  en  I  know  we  ain'  ez  slow  ez  dem" 
argued  Peter,  composedly. 

"  1  don't  know.  I  think  a  snail  must  have  made 
more  progress  since  the  war  than  I  have." 

The  idea  of  his  uselessness  seemed  to  weigh  on  him, 
for  a  little  later  he  remarked,  with  a  sort  of  mortified 
smile : 

"Do  you  think,  Peter,  that  we  would  pass  for  what 
they  call  representative  men  of  the  New  South  ?" 

"  We  done  had  ou'  day,  Marse  Rom,"  replied  Peter. 
"We  got  to  pass  fur  what  we  wuz.  Mebbe  de  LoJuFs 
got  mo'  use  fur  us  yit  'n  people  has,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

From  this  time  on  the  colonel's  strength  gradually 
failed  him ;  but  it  was  not  until  the  following  spring 
that  the  end  came. 

A  night  or  two  before  his  death  his  mind  wandered 
backward,  after  the  familiar  manner  of  the  dying,  and 
his  delirious  dreams  showed  the  shifting,  faded  pictures 
that  renewed  themselves  for  the  last  time  on  his  wast 
ing  memory.  It  must  have  been  that  he  was  once  more 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  active  farm  life,  for  his  broken 
snatches  of  talk  ran  thus  : 

"  Come,  boys,  get  your  cradles  !  Look  where  the  sun 
is  !  You  are  late  getting  to  work  this  morning.  That 
is  the  finest  field  of  wheat  in  the  county.  Be  careful 


128  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

about  the  bundles  !  Make  them  the  same  size  and  tie 
them  tight.  That  swath  is  too  wide,  and  you  don't  hold 
your  cradle  right,  Tom.  .  .  . 

"Sell  Peter!  Sell  Peter  Cotton  f  No,  sir!  You  might 
buv  me  some  day  and  work  me  in  your  cotton  -  field  ; 
but  as  long  as  he's  mine,  you  can't  buy  Peter,  and  you 
can't  buy  any  of  my  negroes.  .  .  . 

"  Boys  !  boys  !  If  you  don't  work  faster,  you  won't 
finish  this  field  to-day.  .  . .  You'd  better  go  in  the  shade 
and  rest  now.  The  sun's  very  hot.  Don't  drink  too 
much  ice-water.  There's  a  jug  of  whisky  in  the  fence- 
corner.  Give  them  a  good  dram  around,  and  tell  them 
to  work  slow  till  the  sun  gets  lower.".  .  . 

Once  during  the  night  a  sweet  smile  played  over  his 
features  as  he  repeated  a  few  words  that  were  part  of 
an  old  rustic  song  and  dance.  Arranged,  not  as  they 
came  broken  and  incoherent  from  his  lips,  but  as  he 
once  had  sung  them,  they  were  as  follows  : 

"  O  Sister  Phcebe!     How  merry  were  we 
When  \ve  sat  under  the  juniper-tree, 

The  juniper-tree,  heigho! 

Put  this  hat  on  your  head!     Keep  your  head  warm; 
Take  a  sweet  kiss !     It  will  do  you  no  harm, 

Do  you  no  harm,  I  know !" 

After  this  he  sank  into  a  quieter  sleep,  but  soon  stirred 
with  a  look  of  intense  pain. 

"Helen!  Helen !"  he  murmured.  "Will  you  break 
your  promise  ?  Have  you  changed  in  your  feelings 
towards  me?  I  have  brought  you  the  pinks.  Won't 
you  take  the  pinks,  Helen  ?" 

Then  he  sighed  as  he  added,  "  It  wasn't  her  fault. 
If  she  had  only  known — " 


TWO  GENTLEME.V  OF  KENTUCKY.         129 

Who  was  the  Helen  of  that  far  away  time  ?  Was  this 
the  colonel's  love-story? 

But  during  all  the  night,  whithersoever  his  mind  wan 
dered,  at  intervals  it  returned  to  the  burden  of  a  single 
strain — the  harvesting.  Towards  daybreak  he  took  it 
up  again  for  the  last  time  : 

"  O  boys,  boys,  boys!  If  you  don't  work  faster  you 
won't  finish  the  field  to-day.  Look  how  low  the  sun 
is  !  ...  I  am  going  to  the  house.  They  can't  finish  the 
field  to-day.  Let  them  do  what  they  can,  but  don't  let 
them  work  late.  I  want  Peter  to  go  to  the  house  with 
me.  Tell  him  to  come  on.".  .  . 

In  the  faint  gray  of  the  morning,  Peter,  who  had  been 
watching  by  the  bedside  all  night,  stole  out  of  the  room, 
and  going  into  the  garden  pulled  a  handful  of  pinks — 
a  thing  he  had  never  done  before — and,  re-entering  the 
colonel's  bedroom,  put  them  in  a  vase  near  his  sleeping 
face.  Soon  afterwards  the  colonel  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  around  him.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  Peter, 
and  on  one  side  sat  the  physician  and  a  friend.  The 
night-lamp  burned  low,  and  through  the  folds  of  the 
curtains  came  the  white  light  of  early  day. 

"Put  out  the  lamp  and  open  the  curtains, "he  said, 
feebly.  "It's  day."  When  they  had  drawn  the  cur 
tains  aside,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  pinks,  sweet  and  fresh 
with  the  dew  on  them.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
touched  them  caressingly,  and  his  eyes  sought  Peter's 
with  a  look  of  grateful  understanding. 

"I  want  to  be  alone  with  Peter  for  a  while,"  he  said, 
turning  his  face  towards  the  others. 

When  they  were  left  alone,  it  was  some  minutes  before 
anything  was  said.  Peter,  not  knowing  what  he  did, 
but  knowing  what  was  coming,  had  gone  to  the  win- 
9 


130  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF    KENTUCKY. 

dow  and  hid  himself  behind  the  curtains,  drawing1  them 
tightly  around  his  form  as  though  to  shroud  himself 
from  sorrow. 

At  length  the  colonel  said,  "  Come  here  !" 

Peter,  almost  staggering  forward,  fell  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  and,  clasping  the  colonel's  feet  with  one  arm, 
pressed  his  cheek  against  them. 

"Come  closer!" 

Peter  crept  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  head  on  the 
colonel's  thigh. 

"  Come  up  here — closer;"  and  putting  one  arm  around 
Peter's  neck  he  laid  the  other  hand  softly  on  his  head, 
and  looked  long  and  tenderly  into  his  eyes.  "  I've  got 
to  leave  you,  Peter.  Don't  you  feel  sorry  for  me  ?'' 

"  Oh,  Marse  Rom !"  cried  Peter,  hiding  his  face,  his 
whcrle  form  shaken  by  sobs. 

"  Peter,"  added,  the  colonel  with  ineffable  gentleness, 
"if  I  had  served  my  Master  as  faithfully  as  you  have 
served  yours,  I  should  not  feel  ashamed  to  stand  in  his 
presence." 

"  If  my  Marseter  is  ez  mussiful  to  me  ez  you  have 
been — '' 

"  I  have  fixed  things  so  that  you  will  be  comfortable 
after  I  am  gone.  When  your  time  comes.  I  should  like 
you  to  be  laid  close  to  me.  We  can  take  the  long  sleep 
together.  Are  you  willing?" 

"  That's  whar  I  want  to  be  laid." 

The  colonel  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  vase,  and 
taking  the  bunch  of  pinks,  said  very  calmly  : 

;'  Leave  these  in  my  hand  ;  I'll  carry  them  with  me." 
A  moment  more,  and  he  added  : 

"  If  I  shouldn:t  wake  up  any  more,  good-bye,  Peter!" 

"  Good-bye,  Marse  Rom  !" 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY.        131 

And  they  shook  hands  a  long  time.  After  this  the 
colonel  lay  back  on  the  pillows.  His  soft,  silvery  hair 
contrasted  strongly  with  his  child-like,  unspoiled,  open 
face.  To  the  day  of  his  death,  as  is  apt  to  be  true  of 
those  who  have  lived  pure  lives  but  never  married,  he 
had  a  boyish  strain  in  him — a  softness  of  nature,  show 
ing  itself  even  now  in  the  gentle  expression  of  his 
mouth.  His  brown  eyes  had  in  them  the  same  boyish 
look  when,  just  as  he  was  falling  asleep,  he  scarcely 
opened  them  to  say : 

"Pray,  Peter." 

Peter,  on  his  knees,  and  looking  across  the  colonel's 
face  towards  the  open  door,  through  which  the  rays  of 
the  rising  sun  streamed  in  upon  his  hoary  head,  prayed, 
while  the  colonel  fell  asleep,  adding  a  few  words  for 
himself  now  left  alone. 

Several  hours  later,  memory  led  the  colonel  back 
again  through  the  dim  gate-way  of  the  past,  and  out  of 
that  gate-way  his  spirit  finally  took  flight  into  the  future. 

Peter  lingered  a  year.  The  place  went  to  the  colonel's 
sister,  but  he  was  allowed  to  remain  in  his  quarters. 
With  much  thinking  of  the  past,  his  mind  fell  into  a 
lightness  and  a  weakness.  Sometimes  he  would  be 
heard  crooning  the  burden  of  old  hymns,  or  sometimes 
seen  sitting  beside  the  old  brass-nailed  trunk,  fumbling 
with  the  spelling-book  and  T/ie  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Oft 
en,  too,  he  walked  out  to  the  cemetery  on  the  edge  of 
the  town,  and  each  time  could  hardly  find  the  colonel's 
grave  amid  the  multitude  of  the  dead. 

One  gusty  day  in  spring,  the  Scotch  sexton,  busy  with 
the  blades  of  blue-grass  springing  from  the  animated 
mould,  saw  his  familiar  figure  standing  motionless  beside 
the  colonel's  resting-place.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat 


132  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF    KENTUCKY. 

— one  of  the  colonel's  last  bequests — and  laid  it  on  the 
coloneFs  head-stone.  On  his  body  he  wore  a  strange 
coat  of  faded  blue,  patched  and  weather-stained,  and  so 
moth-eaten  that  parts  of  the  curious  tails  had  dropped 
entirely  away.  In  one  hand  he  held  an  open  Bible,  and 
on  a  much-soiled  page  he  was  pointing  with  his  finger  to 
the  following  words : 

"I  would  not  have  you  ignorant,  brethren,  concerning 
them  which  are  asleep." 

It  would  seem  that,  impelled  by  love  and  faith,  and 
guided  by  his  wandering  reason,  he  had  come  forth  to 
preach  his  last  sermon  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
over  the  dust  of  his  dead  master. 

The  sexton  led  him  home,  and  soon  afterwards  a 
friend,  who  had  loved  them  both,  laid  him  beside  the 
colonel. 

It  was  perhaps  fitting  that  his  winding-sheet  should 
be  the  vestment  in  which,  years  agone,  he  had  preached 
to  his  fellow-slaves  in  bondage;  for  if  it  so  be  that  the 
dead  of  this  planet  shall  come  forth  from  their  graves 
clad  in  the  trappings  of  mortality,  then  Peter  should 
arise  on  the  Resurrection  Day  wearing  his  old  jeans 
coat. 


THE   WHITE    COWL. 


Ube  TlXHbite  CowL 
I. 

IN  a  shadowy  solitary  valley  of  Southern  Kentucky 
and  beside  a  noiseless  stream  there  stands  to-day  a 
great  French  abbey  of  white-cowled  Trappist  monks. 
It  is  the  loneliest  of  human  habitations.  Though  not 
a  ruin,  an  atmosphere  of  gray  antiquity  hangs  about 
and  forever  haunts  it.  The  pale-gleaming  cross  on  the 
spire  looks  as  though  it  would  fall  to  the  earth,  weary 
of  its  aged  unchangeableness.  The  long  Gothic  win 
dows  ;  the  rudely  carven  wooden  crucifixes,  suggesting 
the  very  infancy  of  holy  art ;  the  partly  encompassing 
wall,  seemingly  built  to  resist  a  siege  ;  the  iron  gate  of 
the  porter's  lodge,  locked  against  profane  intrusion — 
all  are  the  voiceless  but  eloquent  emblems  of  a  past 
that  still  enchains  the  memory  by  its  associations  as  it 
once  enthralled  the  reason  by  its  power. 

Over  the  placid  stream  and  across  the  fields  to  the 
woody  crests  around  float  only  the  sounds  of  the  same 
sweet  monastery  bells  that  in  the  quiet  evening  air  ages 
ago  summoned  a  ruder  world  to  nightly  rest  and  pious 
thoughts  of  heaven.  Within  the  abbey  at  midnight  are 
heard  the  voices  of  monks  chanting  the  self -same 
masses  that  ages  ago  were  sung  by  others,  who  all  night 
long  from  icy  chapel  floors  lifted  up  piteous  hands  with 
intercession  for  poor  souls  suffering  in  purgatory.  One 


136  THE   WHITE   COWL. 

almost  expects  to  see  coming  along  the  dusty  Kentucky 
road  which  winds  through  the  valley  meek  brown  palm 
ers  returning  from  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  or  through  an 
upper  window  of  the  abbey  to  descry  lance  and  visor  and 
battle-axe  flashing  in  the  sunlight  as  they  wind  up  a  dis 
tant  hill-side  to  the  storming  of  some  perilous  citadel. 

Ineffable  influences,  too,  seem  to  bless  the  spot.  Here, 
forsooth,  some  saint,  retiring  to  the  wilderness  to  sub 
due  the  devil  in  his  flesh,  lived  and  struggled  and  suf 
fered  and  died,  leaving  his  life  as  an  heroic  pattern  for 
others  who  in  the  same  hard  way  should  wish  to  win  the 
fullest  grace  of  Christlike  character.  Perhaps  even  one 
of  the  old  monks,  long  since  halting  towards  the  close 
of  his  pilgrimage,  will  reverently  lead  you  down  the  aisle 
to  the  dim  sepulchre  of  some  martyr,  whose  relics  re 
pose  under  the  altar  while  his  virtues  perpetually  exhale 
heavenward  like  gracious  incense. 

The  beauty  of  the  region,  and  especially  of  the  grounds 
surrounding  the  abbey,  thus  seems  but  a  touching  mock 
ery.  What  have  these  inward-gazing,  heavenward-gaz 
ing  souls  to  do  with  the  loveliness  of  Nature,  with  change 
of  season,  or  flight  of  years,  with  green  pastures  and 
waving  harvest-fields  outside  the  wall,  with  flowers  and 
orchards  and  vineyards  within  ? 

It  was  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  beautiful  gardens  of 
the  monastery  that  a  young  monk,  Father  Palemon,  was 
humbly  at  work  one  morning  some  years  ago  amid  the 
lettuces  and  onions  and  fast-growing  potatoes.  The  sun 
smote  the  earth  with  the  fierce  heat  of  departing  June  ; 
and  pausing  to  wipe  the  thick  bead  of  perspiration  from 
his  forehead,  he  rested  a  moment,  breathing  heavily. 
His  powerful  legs  were  astride  a  row  of  the  succulent 
shoots,  and  his  hands  clasped  the  handle  of  the  hoe  that 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  137 

gave  him  a  staff-like  support  in  front.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  sacred  garb  of  his  order.  His  heavy  sabots  crush 
ed  the  clods  in  the  furrows.  His  cream-colored  serge 
cowl,  the  long  skirt  of  which  would  have  touched  the 
ground,  had  been  folded  up  to  his  knees  and  tied  with 
hempen  cords.  The  wide  sleevest  falling  away,  showed 
up  to  the  elbows  the  superb  muscles  of  his  bronzed 
arms  ;  and  the  calotte,  pushed  far  back  from  his  head, 
revealed  the  outlines  of  his  neck,  full,  round,  like  a  col 
umn.  Nearly  a  month  had  passed  since  the  convent 
barber  had  sheared  his  poll,  and  his  yellow  hair  was 
just  beginning  to  enrich  his  temples  with  a  fillet  of  thick 
curling  locks.  Had  Father  Palemon's  hair  been  per 
mitted  to  grow,  it  would  have  fallen  down  on  each  side 
in  masses  shining  like  flax  and  making  the  ideal  head 
of  a  saint.  But  his  face  was  not  the  face  of  a  saint.  It 
had  in  it  no  touch  of  the  saint's  agony — none  of  those 
fine  subtle  lines  that  are  the  material  net-work  of  intense 
spirituality  brooding  within.  Scant  vegetarian  diet  and 
the  deep  shadows  of  cloistral  life  had  preserved  in  his 
complexion  the  delicate  hues  of  youth,  noticeable  still 
beneath  the  tan  of  recent  exposure  to  the  summer  sun. 
His  calm,  steady  blue  eyes,  also,  had  the  open  look 
peculiar  to  self-unconscious  childhood ;  so  that  as  he 
stood  thus,  tall,  sinewy,  supple,  grave,  bareheaded  un 
der  the  open  sky,  clad  in  spotless  white,  a  singular 
union  of  strength,  manliness,  and  unawakened  inno 
cence,  he  was  a  figure  startling  to  come  upon. 

As  he  rested,  he  looked  down  and  discovered  that  the 
hempen  cords  fastening  the  hem  of  his  cowl  were  be 
coming  untied,  and  walking  to  the  border  of  grass  which 
ran  round  the  garden  just  inside  the  monastery  wall,  he 
sat  down  to  secure  the  loosened  threads.  He  was  very 


138  THE    WHITE   COWL. 

tired.  He  had  come  forth  to  work  before  the  first  gray 
of  dawn.  His  lips  were  parched  with  thirst.  Save  the 
little  cup  of  cider  and  a  slice  of  black  bread  with  which 
he  had  broken  his  fast  after  matins,  he  had  not  tasted 
food  since  the  frugal  meal  of  the  previous  noon.  Both 
weary  and  faint,  therefore,  he  had  hardly  sat  down  be 
fore,  in  the  weakness  of  his  flesh,  a  sudden  powerful  im 
pulse  came  upon  him  to  indulge  in  a  moment's  repose. 
His  fingers  fell  away  from  the  untied  cords,  his  body 
sank  backward  against  the  trunk  of  the  gnarled  apple-tree 
by  which  he  was  shaded,  and  closing  his  eyes,  he  drank 
in  eagerly  all  the  sweet  influences  of  the  perfect  day. 

For  Nature  was  in  an  ecstasy.  The  sunlight  never 
fell  more  joyous  upon  the  unlifting  shadows  of  human 
life.  The  breeze  that  cooled  his  sweating  face  was 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  the  wonderful  monastery  roses. 
In  the  dark  green  canopy  overhead  two  piping  flame- 
colored  orioles  drained  the  last  bright  dew-drop  from 
the  chalice  of  a  leaf.  All  the  liquid  air  was  slumbrous 
with  the  minute  music  of  insect  life,  and  from  the  hon 
eysuckles  clambering  over  the  wall  at  his  back  came 
the  murmur  of  the  happy,  happy  bees. 

But  what  power  have  hunger  and  thirst  and  momen 
tary  weariness  over  the  young  ?  Father  Palemon  was 
himself  part  of  the  pure  and  beautiful  nature  around 
him.  His  heart  was  like  some  great  secluded  crimson 
flower  that  .is  ready  to  burst  open  in  a  passionate  seek 
ing  of  the  sun.  As  he  sat  thus  in  the  midst  of  Nature's 
joyousness  and  irrepressible  unfoldings,  and  peaceful 
consummations,  he  forgot  hunger  and  thirst  and  weari 
ness  in  a  feeling  of  delicious  languor.  But  beneath 
even  this,  and  more  subtle  still,  was  the  stir  of  restless 
ness  and  the  low  fever  of  vague  desire  for  something 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  139 

wholly  beyond  his  experience.  He  sighed  and  opened 
his  eyes.  Right  before  them,  on  the  spire  beyond  the 
gardens,  was  the  ancient  cross  to  which  he  was  conse 
crated.  On  his  shoulders  were  the  penitential  wounds 
he  had  that  morning  inflicted  with  the  knotted  scourge. 
In  his  ears  was  the  faint  general  chorus  of  saints  and 
martyrs,  echoing  backward  ever  more  solemnly  to  the 
very  passion  of  Christ.  While  Nature  was  everywhere 
clothing  itself  with  living  greenness,  around  his  gaunt 
body  and  muscular  limbs — over  his  young  head  and  his 
coursing  hot  blood — he  had  wrapped  the  dead  white 
cowl  of  centuries  gone  as  the  winding-sheet  of  his  hu 
manity.  These  were  not  clear  thoughts  in  his  mind, 
but  the  vaguest  suggestions  of  feeling,  which  of  late  had 
come  to  him  at  times,  and  now  made  him  sigh  more 
deeply  as  he  sat  up  and  bent  over  again  to  tie  the  hempen 
cords.  As  he  did  so-,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  voices  just  outside  the  monastery  wall,  which 
was  low  here,  so  that  in  the  general  stillness  they  became 
entirely  audible. 

II. 

Outside  the  wall  was  a  long  strip  of  woodland  which 
rose  gently  to  the  summit  of  a  ridge  half  a  mile  away. 
This  woodland  was  but  little  used.  Into  it  occasionally 
a  lay-brother  drove  the  gentle  monastery  cows  to  past 
ure,  or  here  a  flock  sheltered  itself  beneath  forest  oaks 
against  the  noontide  summer  heat.  Beyond  the  sum 
mit  lay  the  homestead  of  a  gentleman  farmer.  As  one 
descended  this  slope  towards  the  abbey,  he  beheld  it 
from  the  most  picturesque  side,  and  visitors  at  the  home 
stead  usually  came  to  see  it  by  this  secluded  approach. 


140 


THE    WHITE    COWL. 


If  Father  Palemon  could  have  seen  beyond  the  wall, 
he  would  have  discovered  that  the  voices  were  those  of 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman — the  former  a  slight, 
dark  cripple,  and  invalid.  He  led  the  way  along  a  foot 
path  up  quite  close  to  the  wall,  and  the  two  sat  down 
beneath  the  shade  of  a  great  tree.  Father  Palemon, 
listening  eagerly,  unconsciously,  overheard  the  follow 
ing  conversation : 

"  I  should  like  to  take  you  inside  the  abbey  wall,  but, 
of  course,  that  is  impossible,  as  no  woman  is  allowed  to 
enter  the  grounds.  So  we  shall  rest  here  a  while.  I 
find  that  the  walk  tires  me  more  than  it  once  did,  and 
this  tree  has  become  a  sort  of  outside  shrine  to  me  on 
my  pilgrimages." 

"  Do  you  come  often  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  When  we  have  visitors,  I  am  appointed 
their  guide,  probably  because  I  feel  more  interest  in  the 
place  than  any  one  else.  If  they  are  men,  I  take  them 
over  the  grounds  inside  ;  and  if  they  are  women,  I 
bring  them  thus  far  and  try  to  describe  the  rest." 

"  As  you  will  do  for  me  now  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  describing.  Even 
when  I  am,  my  description  always  disappoints  me.  How 
is  one  to  describe  such  human  beings  as  these  monks  ? 
Sometimes,  during  the  long  summer  days,  I  walk  over 
here  alone  and  lie  for  hours  under  this  tree,  until  the  in 
fluences  of  the  place  have  completely  possessed  me  and  I 
feel  wrought  up  to  the  point  of  description.  The  sensation 
of  a  chill  comes  over  me.  Look  up  at  these  Kentucky 
skies  !  You  have  never  seen  them  before.  Are  there 
any  more  delicate  and  tender?  Well,  at  such  times, 
where  they  bend  over  this  abbey,  they  look  as  hard  and 
cold  as  a  sky  of  Landseer's.  The  sun  seems  no  longer 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  141 

to  warm  the  pale  cross  on  the  spire  yonder,  the  great 
drifting  white  clouds  send  a  shiver  through  me  as  though 
uplifted  snow-banks  were  passing  over  my  head.  I  fancy 
that  if  I  were  to  go  inside  I  should  see  the  white  but 
terflies  dropping  down  dead  from  the  petals  of  the  white 
roses,  finding  them  stiff  with  frost,  and  that  the  white 
rabbits  would  be  limping  trembling  through  the  frozen 
grass,  like  the  hare  in  '  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.'  Every 
thing  becomes  cold  to  me — cold,  cold,  cold  !  The  bleak 
and  rugged  old  monks  themselves,  in  their  hoary  cowls, 
turn  to  personifications  of  perpetual  winter  ;  and  if  I 
were  in  the  chapel,  I  should  expect  to  meet  in  one  of 
them  Keats's  very  beadsman — patient,  holy  man,  mea 
gre,  wan — whose  fingers  were  numb  while  he  told  his 
rosary,  and  his  breath  frosted  as  it  took  flight  for 
heaven.  Ugh  !  I  am  cold  now.  My  blood  must  be 
getting  very  thin." 

"  No  ;  you  make  me  shiver  also." 

"  At  least  the  impression  is  a  powerful  one.  I  have 
watched  these  old  monks  closely.  Whether  it  is  from 
the  weakness  of  vigils  and  fasts  or  from  positive  cold, 
they  all  tremble — perpetually  tremble.  I  fancy  that 
their  souls  ache  as  well.  Are  not  their  cowls  the  grave- 
clothes  of  a  death  in  life  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  forget,  Austin,  that  faith  warms  them." 

"  By  extinguishing  the  fires  of  nature  !  Why  should 
not  faith  and  nature  grow  strong  together  ?  I  have  spent 
my  life  on  the  hill-side  back  yonder,  as  you  know,  and 
I  have  had  leisure  enough  for  studying  these  monks.  I 
have  tried  to  do  them  justice.  At  different  times  I  have 
almost  lived  with  St.  Benedict  at  Subiaco,  and  St.  Pat 
rick  on  the  mountain,  and  St.  Anthony  in  the  desert, 
and  St.  Thomas  in  the  cell.  I  understand  and  value 


142  THE    WHITE   COWL. 

the  elements  of  truth  and  beauty  in  the  lives  of  the 
ancient  solitaries.  But  they  belong  so  inalienably  to 
the  past.  We  have  outgrown  the  ideals  of  antiquity. 
How  can  a  man  now  look  upon  his  body  as  his  evil  ten 
ement  of  flesh  ?  How  can  he  believe  that  he  approaches 
sainthood  by  destroying  his  manhood  ?  The  highest 
type  of  personal  holiness  is  said  to  be  attained  in  the 
cloister.  That  is  not  true.  The  highest  type  of  per 
sonal  holiness  is  to  be  attained  in  the  thick  of  the 
world's  temptations.  Then  it  becomes  sublime.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  heroisms  worth  speaking  of  now 
adays  are  active,  not  meditative.  But  why  should  I 
say  this  to  you,  who  as  much  as  any  one  else  have 
taught  me  to  think  thus — I  who  myself  am  able  to  do 
nothing  ?  But  though  I  can  do  nothing,  I  can  at  least 
look  upon  the  monastic  ideal  of  life  as  an  empty,  dead, 
husk,  into  which  no  man  with  the  largest  ideas  of  duty 
will  ever  compress  his  powers.  Even  granting  that  it 
develops  personal  holiness,  this  itself  is  but  one  ele 
ment  in  the  perfect  character,  and  not  even  the  great 
est  one." 

"  But  do  you  suppose  that  these  monks  have  delib 
erately  and  freely  chosen  their  vocation  ?  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  often  there  are  almost  overwhelming 
motives  impelling  men  and  women  to  hide  themselves 
away  from  the  world — from  its  sorrows,  its  dangers, 
its  temptations." 

"  You  are  at  least  orthodox.  I  know  that  such  mo 
tives  exist,  but  are  they  sufficient  ?  Of  course  there  was 
a  time  when  the  cloister  was  a  refuge  from  dangers. 
Certainly  that  is  not  true  in  this  country  now.  And  as 
for  the  sorrows  and  temptations,  I  say  that  they  must 
be  met  in  the  world.  There  is  no  sorrow  befalling  a  man 


THE    WHITE   COWL.  143 

in  the  world  that  he  should  not  bear  in  the  world — bear 
it  as  well  for  the  sake  of  his  own  character  as  for  the 
sake  of  helping  others  who  suffer  like  him.  This  way 
lie  moral  heroism  and  martyrdom.  This  way,  even,  lies 
the  utmost  self-sacrifice,  if  one  will  only  try  to  see  it. 
No,  I  have  but  little  sympathy  with  such  cases.  The 
only  kind  of  monk  who  has  all  my  sympathy  is  the 
one  that  is  produced  by  early  training  and  education.. 
Take  a  boy  whose  nature  has  nothing  in  common  with 
the  scourge  and  the  cell.  Immure  him.  Never  let  him 
get  from  beneath  the  shadow  of  convent  walls  or  away 
from  the  sound  of  masses  and  the  waving  of  crucifixes. 
Bend  him,  train  him,  break  him,  until  he  turns  monk  de 
spite  nature's  purposes,  and  ceases  to  be  a  man  without 
becoming  a  saint.  I  have  sympathy  for  him.  Sympathy! 
I  do  not  know  of  any  violation  of  the  law  of  personal 
liberty  that  gives  me  so  much  positive  suffering." 

"But  why  suffer  over  imaginary  cases?  Such  con 
straint  belongs  to  the  past." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  just  such  an  instance  of  con 
straint  that  has  colored  my  thoughts  of  this  abbey.  It 
is  this  that  has  led  me  to  haunt  the  place  for  years 
from  a  sort  of  sad  fascination.  Men  find  their  way  to 
this  valley  from  the  remotest  parts  of  the  world.  No 
one  knows  from  what  inward  or  outward  stress  they 
come.  They  are  hidden  away  here  and  their  secret  his 
tories  are  buried  with  them.  But  the  history  of  one  of 
these  fathers  is  known,  for  he  has  grown  up  here  under 
the  shadow  of  these  monastery  walls.  You  may  think 
the  story  one  of  mediaeval  flavor,  but  I  believe  its  coun 
terpart  will  here  and  there  be  found  as  long  as  monas 
teries  rise  and  human  beings  fall. 

"  He  was  an  illegitimate  child.     Who  his  father  was, 


I44  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

no  one  ever  so  much  as  suspected.  When  his  mother 
died  he  was  left  a  homeless  waif  in  one  of  the  Kentucky 
towns.  But  some  invisible  eye  was  upon  him.  He  was 
soon  afterwards  brought  to  the  boarding-school  for  poor 
boys  which  is  taught  by  the  Trappist  fathers  here.  Per 
haps  this  was  done  by  his  father,  who  wished  to  get 
him  safely  out  of  the  world.  Well,  he  has  never  left 
this  valley  since  then.  The  fathers  have  been  his  only 
friends  and  advisers.  He  has  never  looked  on  the  face 
of  a  woman  since  he  looked  into  his  mother's  when  a 
child.  He  knows  no  more  of  the  modern  world — ex 
cept  what  the  various  establishments  connected  with  the 
abbey  have  taught  him — than  the  most  ancient  hermit. 
While  he  was  in  the  Trappist  school,  during  afternoons 
and  vacations  he  worked  in  the  monastery  fields  with 
the  lay-brothers.  With  them  he  ate  and  slept.  When 
his  education  was  finished  he  became  a  lay -broth 
er  himself.  But  amid  such  influences  the  rest  of  the 
story  is  foreseen ;  in  a  few  years  he  put  on  the  brown 
robe  and  leathern  girdle  of  a  brother  of  the  order,  and 
last  year  he  took  final  vows,  and  now  wears  the  white 
cowl  and  black  scapular  of  a  priest." 

"  But  if  he  has  never  known  any  other  life,  he,  most 
of  all,  should  be  contented  with  this.  It  seems  to  me 
that  it  would  be  much  harder  to  have  known  human 
life  and  then  renounce  it." 

"That  is  because  you  are  used  to  dwell  upon  the 
good,  and  strive  to  better  the  evil.  No;  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  he  is  happy.  I  do  not  believe  nature  is  ever 
thwarted  without  suffering,  and  nature  in  him  never 
cried  out  for  the  monkish  life,  but  against  it.  His  first 
experience  with  the  rigors  of  its  discipline  proved  near- 
!}•  fatal.  He  was  prostrated  with  long  illness.  Only 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  145 

by  special  indulgence  in  food  and  drink  was  his  health 
restored.  His  system  even  now  is  not  inured  to  the 
cruel  exactions  of  his  order.  You  see,  I  have  known 
him  for  years.  I  was  first  attracted  to  him  as  a  lonely 
little  fellow  with  the  sad  lay-brothers  in  the  fields.  As  I 
would  pass  sometimes,  he  would  eye  me  with  a  boy's 
unconscious  appeal  for  the  young  and  for  companion 
ship.  I  have  often  gone  into  the  abbey  since  then,  to 
watch  and  study  him.  He  works  with  a  terrible  pent- 
up  energy.  I  know  his  type  among  the  young  Ken- 
tuckians.  They  make  poor  monks.  Time  and  again 
they  have  come  here  to  join  the  order.  But  all  have 
soon  fallen  away.  Only  Father  Palemon  has  ever  per 
severed  to  the  taking  of  the  vows  that  bind  him  until 
death.  My  father  knew  his  mother  and  says  that  he  is 
much  like  her — an  impulsive,  passionate,  trustful,  beau 
tiful  creature,  with  the  voice  of  a  seraph.  Father  Pale 
mon  himself  has  the  richest  voice  in  the  monks'  choir. 
Ah,  to  hear  him,  in  the  dr.rk  chapel,  sing  the  Salve  Re- 
gina  !  The  others  seem  to  moderate  their  own  voices, 
that  his  may  rise  clear  and  uncommingled  to  the  vaulted 
roof.  But  I  believe  that  it  is  only  the  music  he  feels. 
He  puts  passion  and  an  outcry  for  human  sympathy  into 
every  note.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  so  strongly 
drawn  towards  him  ?  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  his  ap 
pearance.  I  shall  show  you  his  photograph,  but  that 
will  not  do  it.  I  have  often  imagined  you  two  together 
by  the  very  law  of  contrast.  I  think  of  you  at  home  in 
New  York  City,  with  your  charities,  your  missions,  your 
energetic,  untiring  beneficence.  You  stand  at  one  ex 
treme.  Then  I  think  of  him  at  the  other— doing  noth 
ing,  shut  up  in  this  valley,  spending  his  magnificent 
manhood  in  a  never-changing,  never-ending  routine  of 
10 


146  THE   WHITE   COWL. 

sterile  vigils  and  fasts  and  prayers.  Oh,  we  should 
change  places,  he  and  I  !  I  should  be  in  there  and  he 
out  here.  He  should  be  lying  here  by  your  side,  look 
ing  up  into  your  face,  loving  you  as  I  have  loved  you, 
and  winning  you  as  I  never  can.  Oh,  Madeline,  Mad 
eline,  Madeline !" 

The  rapid,  broken  utterance  suddenly  ceased. 

In  the  deep  stillness  that  followed,  Father  Palemon 
heard  the  sound  of  a  low  sob  and  a  groan. 

He  had  sat  all  this  time  rivetted  to  the  spot,  and  as 
though  turned  into  stone.  He  had  hardly  breathed. 
A  bright  lizard  gliding  from  out  a  crevice  in  the 
wall  had  sunned  itself  in  a  little  rift  of  sunshine 
between  his  feet.  A  bee  from  the  honeysuckles  had 
alighted  unnoticed  upon  his  hand.  Others  sounds  had 
died  away  from  his  ears,  which  were  strained  to  catch 
the  last  echoes  of  these  strange  voices  from  another 
world. 

Now  all  at  once  across  the  gardens  came  the  stroke 
of  a  bell  summoning  to  instant  prayer.  Why  had  it 
suddenly  grown  so  loud  and  terrible  ?  He  started  up. 
He  forgot  priestly  gravity  and  ran — fairly  ran,  head 
long  and  in  a  straight  course,  heedless  of  the  ten 
der  plants  that  were  being  crushed  beneath  his  feet. 
From  another  part  of  the  garden  an  aged  brother,  his 
eye  attracted  by  the  sunlight  glancing  on  a  bright  mov 
ing  object,  paused  while  training  a  grape-vine  and 
watched  with  amazement  the  disorderly  figure  as  it  fled. 
As  he  ran  on,  the  skirts  of  his  cowl,  which  he  had  for 
gotten  to  tie  up,  came  down.  When  at  last  he  reached 
the  door  of  the  chapel  and  stooped  to  unroll  them,  he 
discovered  that  they  had  been  draggled  over  the  dirt 
and  stained  against  the  bruised  weeds  until  they  were 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  147 

hardly  recognizable  as  having  once  been  spotless  white. 
A  pang  of  shame  and  alarm  went  through  him.  It  was 
the  first  stain. 


III. 

Every  morning  the  entire  Trappist  brotherhood  meet 
in  a  large  room  for  public  confession  and  accusation. 
High  at  one  end  sits  the  venerable  abbot;  beside  him, 
but  lower,  the  prior ;  while  the  fathers  in  white  and  the 
brothers  in  brown  range  themselves  on  benches  placed 
against  the  wall  on  each  side. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  this  impressive  ceremony 
that  Father  Palemon  arose,  and,  pushing  the  hood  far 
back  from  his  face,  looked  sorrowfully  around  upon  the 
amazed  company.  A  thrill  of  the  tenderest  sympathy 
shot  through  them.  He  was  the  youngest  by  far  of 
their  number  and  likeliest  therefore  to  go  astray;  but 
never  had  any  one  found  cause  to  accuse  him,  and  nev 
er  had  'he  condemned  himself.  Many  a  head  wearing 
its  winter  of  age  and  worldly  scars  had  been  lifted  in 
that  sacred  audience-chamber  of  the  soul  confessing  to 
secret  sin.  But  not  he.  So  awful  a  thing  is  it  for  a 
father  to  accuse  himself,  that  in  utter  self-abasement  his 
brethren  throw  themselves  prone  to  the  floor  when  he 
rises.  It  was  over  the  prostrate  forms  of  his  brethren 
that  Father  Palemon  now  stood  up  erect,  alone.  Un 
earthly  spectacle !  He  began  his  confession.  In  the 
hushed  silence  of  the  great  bare  chamber  his  voice 
awoke  such  echoes  as  might  have  terrified  the  soul  had 
one  gone  into  a  vast  vault  and  harangued  the  shrouded 
dead.  But  he  went  on,  sparing  not  himself  and  laying 
bare  his  whole  sin — the  yielding  to  weariness  in  the 


!48  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

garden  ;  the  listening  to  the  conversation  ;  most  of  all, 
the  harboring  of  strange  doubts  and  desires  since  then. 
Never  before  had  the  word  "woman"  been  breathed  at 
this  confessional  of  devoted  celibates.  More  than  one 
hooded,  faded  cheek  blushed  secret  crimson  at  the 
sound.  The  circumstances  attending  Father  Palemon's 
temptation  invested  it  with  an  ancient  horror.  The 
scene,  a  garden ;  the  tempter,  a  woman.  It  was  like 
some  modern  Adam  confessing  his  fall. 

His  penance  was  severe.  For  a  week  he  was  not  to 
leave  his  cell,  except  at  brief  seasons.  Every  morning 
he  must  scourge  himself  on  his  naked  back  until  the 
blood  came.  Every  noon  he  must  go  about  the  re 
fectory  on  his  knees,  begging  his  portion  of  daily  bread, 
morsel  by  morsel,  from  his  brethren,  and  must  eat  it 
sitting  before  them  on  the  floor.  This  repast  was  re 
duced  in  quantity  one  half.  An  aged  deaf  monk  took 
his  place  in  the  garden. 

His  week  of  penance  over,  Father  Palemon  came 
forth  too  much  weakened  to  do  heavy  work,  and  was 
sent  to  relieve  one  of  the  fathers  in  the  school.  Edu 
cated  there  himself,  he  had  often  before  this  taught  its 
round  of  familiar  duties. 

The  school  is  situated  outside  the  abbey  wall  on  a 
hill-side  several  hundred  yards  away.  Between  it  and 
the  abbey  winds  the  road  which  enters  the  valley  above 
and  goes  out  below,  connecting  two  country  highways. 
Where  it  passes  the  abbey  it  offers  slippery,  unsafe 
footing  on  account  of  a  shelving  bed  of  rock  which  rises 
on  each  side  as  a  steep  embankment,  and  is  kept  moist 
by  overhanging  trees  and  by  a  small  stream  that  issues 
from  the  road-side  and  spreads  out  over  the  whole  pass. 
The  fathers  are  commanded  to  cross  this  road  at  a 


THE    WHITE   COWL.  149 

quick  gait,  the  hood  drawn  completely  over  the  face, 
and  the  eyes  bent  on  the  ground. 

One  sultry  afternoon,  a  few  days  later,  Father  Pale- 
mon  had  sent  away  his  little  group  of  pious  pupils,  and 
seated  himself  to  finish  his  work.  The  look  of  un- 
awakened  innocence  had  vanished  from  his  eyes.  They 
were  full  of  thought  and  sorrow.  A  little  while  and, 
as  though  weighed  down  with  heaviness,  his  head  sank 
upon  his  arms,  which  were  crossed  over  the  desk.  But 
he  soon  lifted  it  with  alarm.  One  of  the  violent  storms 
which  gather  and  pass  so  quickly  in  the  Kentucky  skies 
was  rushing  on  from  the  south.  The  shock  of  distant 
chunder  sent  a  tremor  through  the  building.  He  walked 
to  the  window  and  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the 
rolling  edge  of  the  low  storm-cloud  with  its  plumes  of 
white  and  gray  and  ominous  dun-green  colors.  Sud 
denly  his  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  road  below.  Around 
a  bend  a  horse  came  running  at  full  speed,  uncon 
trolled  by  the  rider.  He  clasped  his  hands  and  breathed 
a  prayer.  Just  ahead  was  the  slippery,  dangerous  foot 
ing.  Another  moment  and  horse  and  rider  disappeared 
behind  the  embankment.  Then  the  horse  reappeared 
on  the  other  side,  without  saddle  or  rider,  rushing  away 
like  a  forerunner  of  the  tempest. 

He  ran  down.  When  he  reached  the  spot  he  saw  ly 
ing  on  the  road-side  the  form  of  a  woman — the  creature 
whom  his  priestly  vows  forbade  him  ever  to  approach. 
Her  face  was  upturned,  but  hidden  under  a  great  wave 
of  her  long,  loosened,  brown  hair.  He  knelt  down  and, 
lifting  the  hair  aside,  gazed  down  into  it. 

"•Are  Maria! — Mother  of  God  !"  The  disjointed  ex 
clamations  were  instinctive.  The  first  sight  of  beauti 
ful  womanhood  had  instantly  lifted  his  thought  to  the 


150  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

utmost  height  of  holy  associations.  Indeed,  no  sweet 
face  had  he  ever  looked  on  but  the  Virgin's  picture. 
Many  a  time  in  the  last  few  years  had  he,  in  moments 
of  restlessness,  drawn  near  and  studied  it  with  a  sud 
den  rush  of  indefinable  tenderness  and  longing.  But 
beauty,  such  as  this  seemed  to  him,  he  had  never  dream 
ed  of.  He  bent  over  it,  reverential,  awe-stricken.  Then, 
as  naturally  as  the  disciple  John  might  have  succored 
Mary,  finding  her  wounded  and  fainting  by  the  way 
side,  he  took  the  unconscious  sufferer  in  his  arms  and 
bore  her  to  the  school-room  for  refuge  from  the  burst 
ing  storm.  There  he  quickly  stripped  himself  of  his 
great  soft  cowl,  and,  spreading  it  on  the  bare  floor,  laid 
her  on  it,  and  with  cold  water  and  his  coarse  monk's 
handkerchief  bathed  away  the  blood  that  flowed  from 
a  little  wound  on  her  temple. 

A  few  moments  and  she  opened  her  eyes.  He  was 
bending  close  over  her,  and  his  voice  sounded  as  sweet 
and  sorrowful  as  a  vesper  bell : 

"  Do  you  suffer  ?  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  Your  horse 
must  have  fallen  among  the  rocks.  The  girth  was 
broken." 

She  sat  up  bewildered,  and  replied  slowly : 

u  I  think  I  am  only  stunned.  Yes,  my  horse  fell.  I 
was  hurrying  home  out  of  the  storm.  He  took  fright  at 
something  and  I  lost  control  of  him.  What  place  is 
this  ?" 

"  This  is  the  school  of  the  abbey.  The  road  passes 
just  below.  I  was  standing  at  the  window  when  your 
horse  ran  past,  and  I  brought  you  here." 

"I  must  go  home  at  once.  They  will  be  anxious 
about  me.  I  am  visiting  at  a  place  not  more  than  a 
mile  away." 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  15! 

He  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  the  window.  A 
sudden  gray  blur  of  rain  had  effaced  the  landscape. 
The  wind  shook  the  building. 

"You  must  remain  here  until  the  storm  is  over.  It 
will  last  but  a  little  while." 

During  this  conversation  she  had  been  sitting  on  the 
white  cowl,  and  he,  with  the  frankness  of  a  won 
dering,  innocent  child,  had  been  kneeling  quite  close 
beside  her.  Now  she  got  up  and  walked  to  one  of 
the  windows,  looking  out  upon  the  storm,  while  he 
retired  to  another  window  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
room. 

What  was  the  tempest-swept  hill  outside  to  the  wild, 
swift  play  of  emotions  in  him  ?  A  complete  revulsion 
of  feeling  quickly  succeeded  his  first  mood.  What  if 
she  was  more  beautiful — far  more  beautiful — than  the 
sweet  Virgin's  picture  in  the  abbey  ?  She  was  a  devil, 
a  beautiful  devil.  Her  eyes,  her  hair,  which  had  blown 
against  his  face  and  around  his  neck,  were  the  Devil's 
implements ;  her  form,  which  he  had  clasped  in  his 
arms,  was  the  Devil's  subtlest  hiding-place.  She  had 
brought  sin  into  the  world.  She  had  been  the  curse  of 
man  ever  since.  She  had  tempted  St.  Anthony.  She 
had  ruined  many  a  saint,  sent  many  a  soul  to  purgatory, 
many  a  soul  to  hell.  Perhaps  she  was  trying  to  send 
his  soul  to  hell  now — now  while  he  was  alone  with  her 
and  under  her  influence.  It  was  this  same  woman  who 
had  broken  into  the  peace  of  his  life  two  weeks  before, 
for  he  had  instantly  recognized  the  voice  as  the  one 
that  he  had  heard  in  the  garden  and  that  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  severe  penance.  Amid  all  his  scourgings, 
fasts,  and  prayers  that  voice  had  never  left  him.  It 
made  him  ache  to  think  of  what  penance  he  must  now 


152  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

do  again  on  her  account ;  and  with  a  sudden  impulse 
he  walked  across  the  room,  and,  standing  before  her 
with  arms  folded  across  his  breast,  said  in  a  voice  of 
the  simplest  sorrow : 

"  Why  have  you  crossed  my  path-way,  thus  to  tempt 
me?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  calm  but  full 
of  natural  surprise. 

"  I  do  not  understand  how  I  have  tempted  you." 

"You  tempt  me  to  believe  that  woman  is  not  the 
devil  she  is." 

She  was  silent  with  confusion.  The  whole  train  of 
his  thought  was  unknown  to  her.  It  was  difficult,  be 
wildering.  A  trivial  answer  was  out  of  the  question, 
for  he  hung  upon  her  expected  reply  with  a  look  of 
pitiable  eagerness.  She  took  refuge  in  the  didactic. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  the  nature  of  woman. 
It  is  vague,  contradictory ;  it  is  anything,  everything. 
But  I  can  speak  to  you  of  the  lives  of  women ;  that  is  a 
definite  subject.  Some  women  may  be  what  you  call 
devils.  But  some  are  not.  I  thought  that  you  recog 
nized  the  existence  of  saintly  women  within  the  mem 
ories  and  the  present  pale  of  your  church." 

"  True.  It  is  the  women  of  the  world  who  are  the 
devils." 

"  You  know  so  well  the  women  of  the  world  ?" 

"  I  have  been  taught.  I  have  been  taught  that  if 
Satan  were  to  appear  to  me  on  my  right  hand  and  a 
beautiful  woman  of  the  world  on  my  left,  I  should  flee 
to  Satan  from  the  arms  of  my  greater  enemy.  You 
tempt  me  to  believe  that  this  is  not  true — to  believe 
that  the  fathers  have  lied  to  me.  You  tempt  me  to  be 
lieve  that  Satan  would  not  dare  to  appear  in  your  pres- 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  153 

ence.     Is  it  because  you  are  yourself  a  devil  that  you 
tempt  me  thus  ?" 

"  Should  you  ask  me  ?  I  am  a  woman  of  the  world. 
I  live  in  a  city  of  more  than  a  million  souls — in  the 
company  of  thousands  of  these  women-devils.  I  see 
hundreds  of  them  daily.  I  maybe  one  myself.  If  you 
think  I  am  a  ddYil,  you  ought  not  to  ask  me  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  You  should  not  listen  to  me  or  believe  me." 

She  felt  the  cruelty  of  this.  It  was  like  replying 
logically  to  a  child  who  had  earnestly  asked  to  be  told 
something  that  might  wreck  its  faith  and  happiness. 

The  storm  was  passing.  In  a  few  minutes  this 
strange  interview  would  end  :  he  back  to  his  cell  again  : 
she  back  to  the  world.  Already  it  had  its  deep  in 
fluence  over  them  both.  She,  more  than  he,  felt  its  al 
most  tragical  gravity,  and  was  touched  by  its  pathos. 
These  two  young  human  souls,  true  and  pure,  crossing 
each  other's  path-way  in  life  thus  strangely,  now  looked 
info  each  other's  eyes,  as  two  travellers  from  opposite 
sides  of  the  world  meet  and  salute  and  pass  in  the 
midst  of  the  desert. 

"I  shall  believe  whatever  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  with 
tremulous  eagerness. 

The  occasion  lifted  her  ever-serious  nature  to  the  ex 
traordinary;  and  trying  to  cast  the  truth  that  she  wished 
to  teach  into  the  mould  which  would  be  most  familiar  to 
him,  she  replied  : 

"  Do  you  know  who  are  most  like  you  monks  in  con 
secration  of  life?  It  is  the  women  — the  good  women 
of  the  world.  What  are  your  great  vows  ?  Are  they 
not  poverty,  labor,  self-denial,  chastity,  prayer ?  Well, 
there  is  not  one  of  these  but  is  kept  in  the  hearts  of 
good  women.  Only,  you  monks  keep  your  vows  for 


154  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

your  own  sakes,  while  women  keep  them  as  well  for  the 
sakes  of  others.  For  the  sake  of  others  they  live  and 
die  poor.  Sometimes  they  even  starve.  You  never  do 
that.  They  work  for  others  as  you  have  never  worked  ; 
they  pray  for  others  as  you  have  never  prayed.  In 
sickness  and  weariness,  day  and  night,  they  deny  them 
selves  and  sacrifice  themselves  for  others  as  you  have 
never  done — never  can  do.  You  keep  yourselves  pure. 
They  keep  themselves  pure  and  make  others  pure.  If 
you  are  the  best  examples  of  personal  holiness  that 
may  be  found  in  the  world  apart  from  temptation,  they 
are  the  higher  types  of  it  maintained  amid  temptations 
that  never  cease.  You  are  content  to  pray  for  the 
world,  they  also  work  for  it.  If  you  wish  to  see,  in  the 
most  nearly  perfect  form  that  is  ever  attained  in  this 
world,  love  and  sympathy  and  forgiveness ,  if  you  wish 
to  find  vigils  and  patience  and  charity — go  to  the  good 
women  of  the  world.  They  are  all  through  the  world, 
of  which  you  know  nothing  —  in  homes,  and  schools, 
and  hospitals ;  with  the  old,  the  suffering,  the  dying. 
Sometimes  they  are  clinging  to  the  thankless,  the  disso 
lute,  the  cruel ;  sometimes  they  are  ministering  to  the 
weary,  the  heart-broken,  the  deserted.  No,  no  !  Some 
women  may  be  what  you  call  them,  devils — " 

She  blushed  all  at  once  with  recollection  of  her  ear 
nestness.  It  was  the  almost  elemental  simplicity  of 
her  listener  that  had  betrayed  her  into  it.  Meantime, 
as  she  had  spoken,  his  quickly  changing  mood  had  re 
gained  its  first  pitch.  She  seemed  to  rise  higher — to  be 
arraigning  him  and  his  ideals  of  duty.  In  his  own  sight 
he  seemed  to  grow  smaller,  shrink  up,become  despicable ; 
and  when  she  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  her,  alas!  too  plainly  now  betraying  his  heart. 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  155 

"  And  you  are  one  of  these  good  women  ?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  of  myself ;  I  spoke  of  others. 
I  may  be  a  devil." 

For  an  instant  through  the  scattering  clouds  the  sun 
light  had  fallen  in  through  the  window,  lighting  up  her 
head  as  with  a  halo.  It  fell  upon  the  cowl  also,  which 
lay  on  the  floor  like  a  luminous  heap.  She  went  to  it, 
and,  lifting  it,  said  to  him  : 

"  Will  you  leave  me  now  ?  They  must  pass  here  soon 
looking  for  me.  I  shall  see  them  from  the  window.  I 
do  not  know  what  should  have  happened  to  me  but  for 
youi  kindness.  And  I  can  only  thank  you  very  grate 
fully." 

He  took  the  hand  that  she  gave  him  in  both  of  his, 
and  held  it  closely  a  while  as  his  eyes  rested  long  and 
intently  upon  her  face.  Then,  quickly  muffling  up  his 
own  in  the  folds  of  his  cowl,  he  turned  away  and  left 
the  room.  She  watched  him  disappear  behind  the  em 
bankment  below  and  then  reappear  on  the  opposite 
side,  striding  rapidly  towards  the  abbey. 


IV. 

All  that  night  the  two  aged  monks  whose  cells  were 
one  on  each  side  of  Father  Palemon's  heard  him  tossing 
in  his  sleep.  At  the  open  confessional  next  morning  he 
did  not  accuse  himself.  The  events  of  the  day  before 
were  known  to  none.  There  were  in  that  room  but 
two  who  could  have  testified  against  him.  One  was 
Father  Palemon  himself;  the  other  was  a  small  dark- 
red  spot  on  the  white  bosom  of  his  cowl,  just  by  his 
heart.  It  was  a  blood-stain  from  the  wounded  head 


156  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

that  had  lain  on  his  breast.  Through  the  dread  ex 
amination  and  the  confessions  Father  Palemon  sat 
motionless,  his  face  shadowed  by  his  hood,  his  arms 
crossed  over  his  bosom,  hiding  this  scarlet  stain.  What 
nameless  foreboding  had  blanched  his  cheek  when  he 
first  beheld  it?  It  seemed  to  be  a  dead  weight  over 
his  heart,  as  those  earth-stains  on  the  hem  had  begun 
to  clog  his  feet. 

That  day  he  went  the  round  of  his  familiar  duties  fault 
lessly  but  absently.  Without  heeding  his  own  voice,  he 
sang  the  difficult  ancient  offices  of  the  Church  in  a  full 
volume  of  tone,  that  was  heard  above  the  rich  unison  of 
the  unerring  choir.  When,  at  twilight,  he  lay  down  on 
his  hard,  narrow  bed,  with  the  leathern  cincture  about 
his  gaunt  waist,  he  seemed  girt  for  some  lonely  spiritual 
conflict  of  the  midnight  hours.  Once,  in  the  sad  tumult 
of  his  dreams,  his  out-stretched  arms  struck  sharply 
against  some  object  and  he  awoke ;  it  was  the  crucifix 
that  hung  against  the  bare  wall  at  his  head. 

He  sat  up.  The  bell  of  the  monastery  tolled  twelve. 
A  new  day  was  beginning.  A  new  day  for  him?  In 
two  hours  he  would  set  his  feet,  as  evermore,  in  the 
small  circle  of  ancient  monastic  exactions.  Already 
the  westering  moon  poured  its  light  through  the  long 
windows  of  the  abbey  and  flooded  his  cell.  He  arose 
softly  and  walked  to  the  open  casement,  looking  out 
upon  the  southern  summer  midnight.  Beneath  the 
window  lay  the  garden  of  flowers.  Countless  white 
roses,  as  though  censers  swung  by  unseen  hands, 
waved  up  to  him  their  sweet  incense.  Some  dream 
ing  bird  awoke  its  happy  mate  with  a  note  pro 
phetic  of  the  coming  dawn.  From  the  bosom  of  the 
stream  below,  white  trailing  shapes  rose  ethereal  through 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  157 

the  moonlit  air,  and  floated  down  the  valley  as  if  jour 
neying  outward  to  some  mysterious  bourn.  On  the  dim 
horizon  stood  the  domes  of  the  forest  trees,  marking  the 
limits  of  the  valley — the  boundary  of  his  life.  He  press 
ed  his  hot  head  against  the  cold  casement  and  groaned 
aloud,  seeming  to  himself,  in  his  tumultuous  state,  the 
only  thing  that  did  not  belong  to  the  calm  and  holy 
beauty  of  the  scene.  Disturbed  by  the  sound,  an  old 
monk  sleeping  a  few  feet  distant  turned  in  his  cell  and 
prayed  aloud : 

"Seigneur!  Seigneur!  Oubliez  la  faiblesse de  majeunessel 
Vive  Jesus  !  Vive  sa  Croix  /" 

The  prayer  smote  him  like  a  warning.  Conscience 
was  still  torturing  this  old  man — torturing  him  even 
in  his  dreams  on  account  of  the  sinful  fevers  that 
had  burned  up  within  him  half  a  century  ago.  On 
the  very  verge  of  the  grave  he  was  uplifting  his  hands 
to  implore  forgiveness  for  the  errors  of  his  youth. 
Ah !  and  those  other  graves  in  the  quiet  cemetery 
garth  below — the  white -cowled  dust  of  his  brethren, 
mouldering  till  the  resurrection  morn.  They,  too,  had 
been  sorely  tempted — had  struggled  and  prevailed, 
and  now  reigned  as  saints  in  heaven,  whence  they 
looked  sorrowfully  and  reproachfully  down  upon  him, 
and  upon  their  sinful  heaps  of  mortal  dust,  which  had 
so  foiled  the  immortal  spirit. 

Miserably,  piteously,  he  wrestled  with  himself.  Even 
conscience  was  divided  in  twain  and  fought  madly  on 
both  sides.  His  whole  training  had  left  him  obedient 
to  ideas  of  duty.  To  be  told  what  to  do  always  had 
been  for  him  to  do  it.  But  hitherto  his  teachers  had 
been  the  fathers.  Lately  two  others  had  appeared — a 
man  and  a  woman  of  the  world,  who  had  spoken  of  life 


1^8  THE    WHITE   COWL. 

and  of  duty  as  he  had  never  thought  of  them.  The 
pale,  dark  hunchback,  whom  he  had  often  seen  haunting 
the  monastery  grounds  and  hovering  around  him  at  his 
work,  had  unconsciously  drawn  aside  for  him  the  cur 
tains  of  the  world  and  a  man's  nobler  part  in  it.  The 
woman,  whom  he  had  addressed  as  a  devil,  had  come 
m  his  eyes  to  be  an  angel.  Both  had  made  him  blush 
for  his  barren  life,  his  inactivity.  Both  had  shown  him 
which  way  duty  lay. 

Duty  ?  Ah  !  it  was  not  duty.  It  was  the  woman,  the 
woman!  The  old  tempter  !  It  was  the  sinful  passion  of 
love  that  he  was  responding  to;  it  was  the  recollection 
of  that  sweet  face  against  which  his  heart  had  beat — of 
the  helpless  form  that  he  had  borne  in  his  arms.  Duty 
or  love,  he  could  not  separate  them.  Tlie  great  world, 
on  the  boundaries  of  which  he  wished  to  set  his  feet, 
was  a  dark,  formless,  unimaginable  thing,  and  only  the 
light  from  the  woman's  face  streamed  across  to  him  and 
beckoned  him  on.  It  was  she  who  made  his  priestly 
life  wretched — made  even  the  wearing  of  his  cowl  an 
act  of  hypocrisy  that  was  the  last  insult  to  Heaven. 
Better  anything  than  this.  Better  the  renunciation  of 
his  sacred  calling,  though  it  should  bring  him  the  loss 
of  earthly  peace  and  eternal  pardon. 

The  clock  struck  half-past  one.  He  turned  back  to 
his  cell.  The  ghastly  beams  of  the  setting  moon  suf 
fused  it  with  the  pallor  of  a  death -scene.  God  in 
heaven  !  The  death-scene  was  there — the  crucifixion  ! 
The  sight  pierced  him  afresh  with  the  sharpest  sorrow, 
and  taking  the  crucifix  down,  he  fell  upon  his  knees 
and  covered  it  with  his  kisses  and  his  tears.  There 
was  the  wound  in  the  side,  there  were  the  drops  of 
blood  and  the  thorns  on  the  brow,  and  the  divine  face 


THE   WHITE   COWL.  159 

still  serene  and  victorious  in  the  last  agony  of  self- 
renunciation.  Self-renunciation  ! 

"  Lord,  is  it  true  that  I  cannot  live  to  Thee  alone  ? 
And  Thou  didst  sacrifice  Thyself  to  the  utmost  for 
me !  Consider  me,  how  I  am  made !  Have  mercy, 
have  mercy !  If  I  sin,  be  Thou  my  witness  that  I  do 
not  know  it ! — Thou,  too,  didst  love  her  well  enough  to 
die  for  her !" 

In  that  hour,  when  he  touched  the  highest  point  that 
nature  ever  enabled  him  to  attain,  Father  Palemon, 
looking  into  his  conscience  and  into  the  divine  face, 
took  his  final  resolution.  He  was  still  kneeling  in 
steadfast  contemplation  of  the  cross  when  the  moon 
withdrew  its  last  ray  and  over  it  there  rushed  a  sudden 
chill  and  darkness.  He  was  still  immovable  before  it 
when,  at  the  resounding  clangor  of  the  bell,  all  the 
spectral  figures  of  his  brethren  started  up  from  their 
couches  like  ghosts  from  their  graves,  and  in  a  long, 
shadowy  line  wound  noiselessly  downward  into  the 
gloom  of  the  chapel,  to  begin  the  service  of  matins  and 
lauds. 


V. 

He  did  not  return  with  them  when  at  the  close  of 
day  they  wound  upward  again  to  their  solemn  sleep. 
He  slipped  unseen  into  the  windings  of  a  secret  pas 
sage-way,  and  hastening  to  the  reception-room  of  the 
abbey  sent  for  the  abbot. 

It  was  a  great  bare  room.  A  rough  table  and  two 
plain  chairs  in  the  middle  were  the  only  furniture.  Over 
the  table  there  swung  from  the  high  ceiling  a  single 
low,  lurid  point  of  light,  that  failed  to  reach  the  shad- 


l6o  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

ows  of  the  recesses.  The  few  poor  pictures  of  saints 
and  martyrs  on  the  walls  were  muffled  in  gloom.  The 
air  was  dank  and  noisome,  and  the  silence  was  that  of 
a  vault. 

Standing  half  in  light  and  half  in  darkness,  Father 
Palemon  awaited  the  coming  of  his  august  superior.  It 
was  an  awful  scene.  His  face  grew  whiter  than  his 
cowl,  and  he  trembled  till  he  was  ready  to  sink  to  the 
floor.  A  few  moments,  and  through  the  dim  door-way 
there  softly  glided  in  the  figure  of  the  aged  abbot,  like 
a  presence  rather  felt  than  seen.  He  advanced  to  the 
little  zone  of  light,  the  iron  keys  clanking  at  his  girdle, 
his  delicate  fingers  interlaced  across  his  breast,  his  gray 
eyes  filled  with  a  look  of  mild  surprise  and  displeasure. 

"  You  have  disturbed  me  in  my  rest  and  medita 
tions.  The  occasion  must  be  extraordinary.  Speak  ! 
Be  brief !" 

"  The  occasion  is  extraordinary.  I  shall  be  brief. 
Father  Abbot,  I  made  a  great  mistake  in  ever  becom 
ing  a  monk.  Nature  has  not  fitted  me  for  such  a  life. 
I  do  not  any  longer  believe  that  it  is  my  duty  to  live  it. 
I  have  disturbed  your  repose  only  to  ask  you  to  receive 
the  renunciation  of  my  priestly  vows  and  to  take  back 
my  cowl  •  I  will  never  put  it  on  again." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  off  his  cowl  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  between  them,  showing  that  he  wore  beneath  the 
ordinary  dress  of  a  working-man. 

Under  the  flickering  spark  the  face  of  the  abbot  had 
at  first  flushed  with  anger  and  then  grown  ashen  with 
vague,  formless  terror.  He  pushed  the  hood  back  from 
his  head  and  pressed  his  fingers  together  until  the  jew 
elled  ring  cut  into  the  flesh. 

"  You  are  a  priest  of  God,  consecrated  for  life.    Con- 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  l6l 

sider  the  sin  and  folly  of  what  you  say.  You  have  made 
no  mistake.  It  would  be  too  late  to  correct  it,  if  3'ou 
had." 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  correct  it  as  soon  as  possi 
ble.  I  shall  leave  the  monastery  to  night." 

"To-night  you  confess  what  has  led  you  to  harbor 
this  suggestion  of  Satan.  To-night  I  forgive  you.  To 
night  you  sleep  once  more  at  peace  with  the  world  and 
your  own  soul.  Begin !  Tell  me  everything  that  has 
happened — everything !" 

"It  were  better  untold.  It  could  only  pain  —  only 
shock  you." 

"  Ha !  You  say  this  to  me,  who  stand  to  you  in 
God's  stead?" 

"  Father  Abbot,  it  is  enough  that  Heaven  should 
know  my  recent  struggles  and  my  present  purposes. 
It  does  know  them." 

"  And  it  has  not  smitten  you  ?     It  is  merciful." 

"It  is  also  just." 

"  Then  do  not  deny  the  justice  you  receive.  Did  you 
not  give  yourself  up  to  my  guidance  as  a  sheep  to  a 
shepherd  ?  Am  I  not  to  watch  near  you  in  danger  and 
lead  you  back  when  astray?  Do  you  not  realize  that  I 
may  not  make  light  of  the  souls  committed  to  my 
charge,  as  my  own  soul  shall  be  called  into  judgment 
at  the  last  day?  Am  I  to  be  pushed  aside  —  made 
naught  of — at  such  a  moment  as  this?" 

Thus  urged,  Father  Palemon  told  what  had  recently 
befallen  him,  adding  these  words  : 

"  Therefore  I  am  going — going  now.  I  cannot  ex 
pect  your  approval :  that  pains  me.  But  have  I  not  a 
claim  upon  your  sympathy  ?  You  are  an  old  man,  Fa 
ther  Abbot.  You  are  nearer  heaven  than  this  earth. 
ii 


l62  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

But  you  have  been  young;  and  I  ask  you,  is  there  not 
in  the  past  of  your  own  buried  life  the  memory  of  seme 
one  for  whom  you  would  have  risked  even  the  peace 
and  pardon  of  your  own  soul  ?" 

The  abbot  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  sud 
den  anguish,  and  turned  away  into  the  shadowy  dis 
tances  of  the  room. 

When  he  emerged  again,  he  came  up  close  to  Father 
Palemon  in  the  deepest  agitation.  - 

"  I  tell  you  this  purpose  of  yours  is  a  suggestion  of 
the  Evil  Spirit.  Break  it  against  the  true  rock  of  the 
Church.  You  should  have  spoken  sooner.  Duty,  hon 
or,  gratitude,  should  have  made  you  speak.  Then  I 
could  have  made  this  burden  lighter  for  you.  But, 
heavy  as  it  is,  it  will  pass.  You  suffer  now,  but  it  will 
pass,  and  you  will  be  at  peace  again — at  perfect  peace 
again." 

"  Never  !  Never  again  at  peace  here  !  My  place  is 
in  the  world.  Conscience  tells  me  that.  Besides,  have 
I  not  told  you,  Father  Abbot,  that  I  love  her,  that  I 
think  of  her  day  and  night  ?  Then  I  am  no  priest. 
There  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  go  out  into  the 
world." 

"  The  world  !  What  do  you  know  of  the  world  ?  If 
I  could  sum  up  human  life  to  you  in  an  instant  of  time, 
I  might  make  you  understand  into  what  sorrow  this  ca 
price  of  restlessness  and  passion  is  hurrying  you." 

Sweetness  had  forsaken  the  countenance  of  the  aged 
shepherd.  His  tones  rung  hoarse  and  hollow,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  face  twitched  and  quivered  as  he 
went  on  : 

"  Reflect  upon  the  tranquil  life  that  you  have  spent 
here,  preparing  your  soul  for  immortality.  All  your 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  163 

training  has  been  for  the  solitude  of  the  cloister.  Al! 
your  enemies  have  been  only  the  spiritual  foes  of  your 
own  nature.  You  say  that  you  are  not  fitted  for  this 
life.  Are  you  then  prepared  for  a  life  in  the  world  ? 
Foolish,  foolish  boy  !  You  exchange  the  terrestrial  soli 
tude  of  heaven  for  the  battle-field  of  hell.  Its  coarse, 
foul  atmosphere  will  stifle  and  contaminate  you.  It  has 
problems  that  you  have  not  been  taught  to  solve.  It 
has  shocks  that  you  would  never  withstand.  I  see  you 
in  the  world  ?  Never,  never  !  See  you  in  the  midst  of 
its  din  and  sweat  of  weariness,  its  lying  and  dishonor? 
You  say  that  you  love  this  woman.  Heaven  forgive 
you  this  sin  !  You  would  follow  her.  Do  you  not  know 
that  you  may  be  deluded,  trifled  with,  disappointed  ? 
She  may  love  another.  Ah  !  you  are  a  child — a  simple 
child !" 

"  Father  Abbot,  it  is  time  that  I  were  becoming  a  man." 
But  the  abbot  did  not  hear  or  pause,  borne  on  now 
by  a  torrent  of  ungovernable  feelings  : 

"Your  parents  committed  a  great  sin."  He  sudden 
ly  lifted  the  cross  from  his  bosom  to  his  lips,  which 
moved  rapidly  for  an  instant  in  silent  prayer.  "  It  has 
never  been  counted  against  you  here,  as  it  will  never 
be  laid  to  your  charge  in  heaven.  But  the  world  will 
count  it  against  you.  It  will  make  you  feel  its  jeers 
and  scorn.  You  have  no  father,"  again  he  bent  over 
and  passionately  kissed  his  cross,  "you  have  no  name. 
You  are  an  illegitimate  child.  There  is  no  place  for 
you  in  the  world — in  the  world  that  takes  no  note  of 
sin  unless  it  is  discovered.  I  warn  you — I  warn  you 
by  all  the  years  of  my  own  experience,  and  by  all  the 
sacred  obligations  of  your  holy  order,  against  this  fatal 
step." 


1 64  THE   WHITE   COWL. 

"  Though  it  be  fatal,  I  must  and  will  take  it." 

"  I  implore  you !  God  in  heaven,  dost  thou  punish 
me  thus  ?  See !  I  am  an  old  man.  I  have  but  a  few 
years  to  live.  You  are  the  only  tie  of  human  tender 
ness  that  binds  me  to  my  race.  My  .heart  is  buried  in 
yours.  I  have  watched  over  you  since  you  were  brought 
here,  a  little  child.  I  have  nursed  you  through  months 
of  sickness.  I  have  hastened  the  final  assumption  of 
your  vows,  that  you  might  be  safe  within  the  fold.  I 
have  stayed  my  last  days  on  earth  with  the  hope  that 
when  I  am  dead,  as  I  soon  shall  be,  you  would  perpetu 
ate  my  spirit  among  your  brethren,  and  in  time  come 
to  be  a  shepherd  among  them,  as  I  have  been.  Do  not 
take  this  solace  from  me.  The  Church  needs  you — 
most  of  all  needs  you  in  this  age  and  in  this  country. 
I  have  reared  you  within  it  that  you  might  be  glorified 
at  last  among  the  saints  and  martyrs.  No,  no  !  You 
will  not  go  away  !" 

"  Father  Abbot,  what  better  can  I  do  than  heed  the 
will  of  Heaven  in  my  own  conscience  ?" 

"  I  implore  you  !" 

"  I  must  go." 

"  I  warn  you,  I  say." 

"  Oh,  my  father  !  You  only  make  more  terrible  the 
anguish  of  this  moment.  Bless  me,  and  let  me  go  in 
peace." 

"Bless  you  ?"  almost  shrieked  the  abbot,  starting  back 
with  horror,  his  features  strangely  drawn,  his  uplifted 
arms  trembling,  his  whole  body  swaying.  "Bless  you? 
Do  this,  and  I  will  hurl  upon  you  the  awful  curse  of  the 
everlasting  Church !" 

As  though  stricken  by  the  thunderbolt  of  his  own  im 
precation,  he  fell  into  one  of  the  chairs  and  buried  his 


THE    WHITE    COWL.  165 

head  in  his  arms  upon  the  table.  Father  Palemon  had 
staggered  backward,  as  though  the  curse  had  struck 
him  in  the  forehead.  These  final  words  he  had  never 
thought  of — never  foreseen.  For  a  moment  the  silence 
of  the  great  chamber  was  broken  only  by  his  own  quick 
breathing  and  by  the  convulsive  agitation  of  the  abbot. 
Then  with  a  rapid  movement  Father  Palemon  came 
forward,  knelt,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  the  abbot's  cowl, 
and,  turning  away,  went  out. 

Love — duty — the  world ;  in  those  three  words  lie  all 
the  human,  all  the  divine,  tragedy. 


VI. 
Years  soon  pass  away  in  the  life  of  a  Trappist  priest. 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

Another  June  came  quickly  into  the  lonely  valley  of 
the  Abbey  of  Gethsemane.  Again  the  same  sweet 
monastery  bells  in  the  purple  twilights,  and  the  same 
midnight  masses.  Monks  again  at  work  in  the  gar 
dens,  their  cowls  well  tied  up  with  hempen  cords. 
Monks  once  more  teaching  the  pious  pupils  in  the 
school  across,  the  lane.  The  gorgeous  summer  came 
and  passed  beyond  the  southern  horizon,  like  a  mortal 
vision  of  beauty  never  to  return.  There  'were  few 
changes  to  note.  Only  the  abbot  seemed  to  have  grown 
much  feebler.  His  hand  trembled  visibly  now  as  he  lifted 
the  crosier,  and  he  walked  less  than  of  yore  among  his 
brethren  while  they  busied  themselves  with  the  duties  of 
the  waning  autumn.  But  he  was  oftener  seen  pacing  to 


l66  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

and  fro  where  the  leaves  fell  sadly  from  the  moaning 
choir  of  English  elms.  Or  at  times  he  would  take  a  lit 
tle  foot-path  that  led  across  the  brown  November  fields, 
and,  having  gained  a  crest  on  the  boundary  of  the  val 
ley,  would  stand  looking  far  over  the  outward  landscape 
into  imaginary  spaces,  limitless  and  unexplored. 

But  Father  Palemon,  where  was  he  ?  Amid  what 
splendors  of  the  great  metropolis  was  he  bursting  Joy's 
grape  against  his  palate  fine  ?  What  of  his  dreams  of 
love  and  duty,  and  a  larger,  more  modern  stature  of 
manhood  ? 

•  Late  one  chill,  cloud-hung  afternoon  in  November 
-there  came  into  the  valley  of  Gethsemane  the  figure  of 
a  young  man.  He  walked  slowly  along  the  road  towards 
the  abbey,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  weary  and  forget 
ful  of  his  surroundings.  His  head  dropped  heavily  for 
ward  on  his  breast,  and  his  empty  hands  hung  listlessly 
down.  At  the  iron  gate  of  the  porter's  lodge  entrance 
was  refused  him ;  the  abbey  was  locked  in  repose  for 
the  night.  Urging  the  importance  of  his  seeing  the  ab 
bot,  he  was  admitted.  He  erased  a  name  from  a  card 
and  on  it  wrote  another,  and  waited  for  the  interview. 

Again  the  same  great  dark  room,  lighted  by  a  flicker 
ing  spark.  He  did  not  stand  half  in  light  and  half  in 
shadow,  but  hid  himself  away  in  one  of  the  darkest 
recesses.  In  a  few  moments  the  abbot  entered,  holding 
the  card  in  his  hand  and  speaking  with  tremulous 
haste  : 

"  '  Father  Palemon  ?' — who  wrote  this  name,  '  Father 
Palemon  ?'  " 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  a  low  reply : 

" 1  wrote  it." 


THE    WHITE   COWL.  167 

"  I  do  not  know  you." 

"  I  am  Father  Palemon." 

The  calm  of  a  great  sadness  was  in  the  abbot's  voice, 
as  he  replied,  musingly: 

"  There  —  is  —  no  —  Father  Palemon  :  he  died  long 
ago." 

"  Oh,  my  father  !     Is  this  the  way  you  receive  me  ?" 

He  started  forward  and  came  into  the  light.  Alas ! 
No  ;  it  was  not  Father  Palemon.  His  long  hair  was  un 
kempt  and  matted  over  his  forehead ,  his  face  pinched 
and  old  with  suffering,  and  ashen  gray  except  for  the 
red  spots  on  his  cheeks.  Deep  shadows  lay  under  his 
hollow  eyes,  which  were  bloodshot  and  restless  and 
burning. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  lead  the  life  of  a  monk.  Will 
you  receive  me  ?" 

"  Twice  a  monk,  no  monk.  Receive  you  for  what 
time  ?  Until  next  June  ?" 

"  Until  death." 

"  I  have  received  you  once  already  until  death.  How 
many  times  am  I  to  receive  you  until  death  ?" 

"  I  beseech  you  do  not  contest  in  words  with  me.  It 
is  too  much.  I  am  ill.  I  am  in  trouble." 

He  suddenly  checked  his  passionate  utterance,  speak 
ing  slowly  and  with  painful  self-control : 

"  I  cannot  endure  how  to  tell  you  all  that  has  befallen 
me  since  I  went  away.  The  new  life  that  I  had  begun 
in  the  world  has  come  to  an  end.  Father  Abbot,  she 
is  dead.  I  have  just  buried  her  and  my  child  in  one 
grave.  Since  then  the  one  desire  I  have  had  has  been 
to  return  to  this  place.  God  forgive  me  !  I  have  no 
heart  now  for  the  duties  I  had  undertaken.  I  had  not 
measured  my  strength  against  this  calamity.  It  has  left 


l68  THE    WHITE    COWL. 

me  powerless  for  good  to  any  human  creature.  My 
plans  were  wrecked  when  she  died.  My  purposes  have 
gone  to  pieces.  There  is  no  desire  in  me  but  for  peace 
and  solitude  and  prayer.  All  that  I  can  do  now  is  to 
hide  my  poor,  broken,  ineffectual  life  here,  until  by 
God's  will,  sooner  or  later,  it  is  ended." 

"  You  speak  in  the  extremity  of  present  suffering. 
You  are  young.  Nearly  all' your  life  lies  yet  before  you. 
In  time  Nature  heals  nearly  all  the  wounds  that  she  in 
flicts.  In  a  few  years  this  grief  which  now  unmans  you 
— which  you  think  incurable — will  wear  itself  out.  You 
do  not  believe  this.  You  think  me  cruel.  But  I  speak 
the  truth.  Then  you  may  be  happy  again — happier  than 
you  have  ever  been.  Then  the  world  will  resume  its  hold 
upon  you.  If  the  duties  of  a  man's  life  have  appealed 
to  your  conscience,  as  I  believe  they  have,  they  will 
then  appeal  to  it  with  greater  power  and  draw  you  with 
a  greater  sense  of  their  obligations.  Moreover,  you  may 
love  again — ah  !  Hush  !  Hear  me  through  !  You  think 
this  is  more  unfeeling  still.  But  I  must  speak,  and  speak 
now.  It  is  impossible  to  seclude  you  here  against  all 
temptation.  Some  day  you  may  see  another  woman's 
face— hear  another  woman's  voice.  You  may  find  your 
priestly  vows  intolerable  again.  Men  who  once  break 
their  holiest  pledges  for  the  sake  of  love  will  break  them 
again,  if  they  love  again.  No,  no  !  If  you  were  unfit 
for  the  life  of  a  monk  once,  much  more  are  you  unfit 
now.  Now  that  you  are  in  the  world,  better  to  remain 
there." 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  will  you  deny  me  ?  I  tell  you 
that  this  is  the  only  desire  left  to  me.  The  world  is  as 
dead  to  me  as  though  it  never  existed,  because  my 
heart  is  broken.  You  misunderstood  me  then.  You 


THE   WHITE    COWL.  l6g 

misunderstand  me  now.     Does   experience  count  for 
nothing  in  preparing  a  man  for  the  cloister?" 

"  I  did  misunderstand  you  once  ;  I  thought  that  you 
were  fitted  for  the  life  of  a  monk.  I  understand  you 
now:  I  do  not  make  the  same  mistake  twice." 

"  This  is  the  home  of  my  childhood,  and  you  turn  me 
away  ?" 

"You  went  away  yourself,  in  the  name  of  conscience 
and  of  your  own  passion." 

"  This  is  the  house  of  God,  and  you  close  its  doors 
against  me?" 

"  You  burst  them  open  of  your  own  self-will." 
:  Hitherto  the  abbot  had  spoken  for  duty,  for  his 
church,  for  the  inviolable  sanctity  of  his  order.  Against 
these  high  claims  the  pent-up  tenderness  of  his  heart 
had  weighed  as  nothing.  But  now  as  the  young  man, 
having  fixed  a  long  look  upon  his  face,  turned  silent 
ly  away  towards  the  door,  with  out -stretched  arms 
he  tottered  after  him,  and  cried  out  in  broken  tones: 
"  Stop  !  Stop,  I  pray  you  !  You  are  ill.  You  are  free 
to  remain  here  a  guest.  No  one  was  ever  refused  shel 
ter.  Oh,  my  God !  what  have  I  done?" 

Father  Palemon  had  reeled  and  fallen  fainting  in  the 
door-way. 

In  this  life,  from  earliest  childhood,  we  are  trained  by 
merciful  degrees  to  brave  its  many  sorrows.  We  begin 
with  those  of  infancy,  which,  Heaven  knows,  at  the 
time  seem  grievous  enough  to  be  borne.  As  we  grow 
older  we  somehow  also  grow  stronger,  until  through  the 
discipline  of  many  little  sufferings  we  are  enabled  to 
bear  up  under  those  final  avalanches  of  disaster  that 
rush  down  upon  us  in  maturer  years.  Even  thus  forti- 


I70 


THE    WHITE    COWL. 


fied,  there  are  some  of  us  on  whom  these  fall  only  to 
overwhelm. 

But  Father  Palemon.  Unnaturally  shielded  by  the 
cloister  up  to  that  period  of  young  manhood  when  feel 
ing  is  deepest  and  fortitude  least,  he  had  suddenly  ap 
peared  upon  the  world's  stage  only  to  enact  one  of  the 
greatest  scenes  in  the  human  tragedy — that  scene  where 
in  the  perfect  ecstasy  of  love  by  one  swift,  mortal  tran 
sition  becomes  the  perfect  agony  of  loss.  What  wonder 
if  he  had  staggered  blindly,  and  if,  trailing  the  habili 
ments  of  his  sorrow,  he  had  sought  to  return  to  the  only 
place  that  was  embalmed  in  his  memory  as  a  peaceful 
haven  for  the  shipwrecked  ?  But  even  this  quiet  port 
was  denied  him. 

Into  the  awful  death-chamber  of  the  abbey  they  bore 
him  one  midnight  some  weeks  later.  The  tension  of 
physical  powers  during  the  days  of  his  suspense  and 
suffering,  followed  by  the  shock  of  his  rejection,  had 
touched  those  former  well-nigh  fatal  ravages  that  had 
prostrated  him  during  the  period  of  his  austere  novitiate. 
He  was  dying.  The  delirium  of  his  fever  had  passed 
-away,  and  with  a  clear,  dark,  sorrowful  eye  he  watched 
them  prepare  for  the  last  agony. 

On  the  bare  floor  of  the  death-chamber  they  sprinkled 
consecrated  ashes  in  the  form  of  a  cross.  Over  these 
they  scattered  straw,  and  over  the  straw  they  drew  a 
coarse  serge  cloth.  This  was  his  death-bed — a  sign 
that  in  the  last  hour  he  was  admitted  once  more  to  the 
fellowship  of  his  order.  From  the  low  couch  on  which 
he  lay  he  looked  at  it.  Then  he  made  a  sign  to  the 
abbot,  in  the  mute  language  of  the  brotherhood.  The 
abbot  repeated  it  to  one  of  the  attendant  fathers,  who 


THE    WHITE   COWL.  IJI 

withdrew  and  soon  returned,  bringing  a  white  cowl. 
Lifting  aside  the  serge  cloth,  he  spread  the  cowl  over 
the  blessed  cinders  and  straw.  Father  Palemon's  re 
quest  had  been  that  he  might  die  upon  his  cowl,  and  on 
this  they  now  stretched  his  poor  emaciated  body,  his  cold 
feet  just  touching  the  old  earth-stains  upon  its  hem. 
He  lay  for  a  little  while  quite  still,  with  closed  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  them  upon  the  abbot  and  the  monks, 
who  were  kneeling  in  prayer  around  him,  and  said,  in  a 
voice  of  great  and  gentle  dignity  : 

"  My  father — my  brethren,  have  I  your  full  forgive 
ness  ?" 

With  sobs  they  bowed  themselves  around  him.  After 
this  he  received  the  crucifix,  tenderly  embracing  it,  and 
then  lay  still  again,  as  if  awaiting  death.  But  finally  he 
turned  over  on  one  side,  and  raising  himself  on  one 
forearm,  sought  with  the  hand  of  the  other  among  the 
folds  of  his  cowl  until  he  found  a  small  blood-stain  now 
faint  upon  its  bosom.  Then  he  lay  down  again,  press 
ing  his  cheek  against  it ;  and  thus  the  second  time  a 
monk,  but  even  in  death  a  lover,  he  breathed  out  his 
spirit  with  a  faint  whisper — "  Madeline  !" 

And  as  he  lay  on  the  floor,  so  now  he  lies  in  the  dim 
cemetery  garth  outside,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in 
his  cowl,  with  its  stains  on  the  hem  and  the  bosom. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA. 


Sister  Dolorosa, 

i. 

WHEN  Sister  Dolorosa  had  reached  the  summit  of  a 
low  hill  on  her  way  to  the  convent  she  turned  and 
stood  for  a  while  looking  backward.  The  landscape 
stretched  away  in  a  rude,  unlovely  expanse  of  gray 
fields,  shaded  in  places  by  brown  stubble,  and  in  others 
lightened  by  pale,  thin  corn — the  stunted  reward  of  ne 
cessitous  husbandry.  This  way  and  that  ran  wavering 
lines  of  low  fences,  some  worm-eaten,  others  rotting  be 
neath  over-clambering  wild  rose  and  blackberry.  About 
the  horizon  masses  of  dense  and  rugged  woods  burned 
with  sombre  fires  as  the  westering  sun  smote  them  from 
top  to  underbrush.  Forth  from  the  edge  of  one  a  few 
long-horned  cattle,  with  lowered  heads,  wound  meekly 
homeward  to  the  scant  milking.  The  path  they  fol 
lowed  led  towards  the  middle  background  of  the  picture, 
where  the  weather-stained  and  sagging  roof  of  a  farm 
house  rose  above  the  tops  of  aged  cedars.  Some  of  the 
branches,  broken  by  the  sleet  and  snow  of  winters,  trail 
ed  their  burdens  from  the  thinned  and  desolated  crests 
— as  sometimes  the  highest  hopes  of  the  mind,  after  be 
ing  beaten  down  by  the  tempests  of  the  world,  droop 
around  it  as  memories  of  once  transcendent  aspirations. 

Where  she  stood  in  the  dead  autumn  fields  few  sounds 
broke  in  upon  the  pervasive  hush  of  the  declining  day. 


176  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

Only  a  cricket,  under  the  warm  clod  near  by,  shrilled 
sturdily  with  cheerful  forethought  of  drowsy  hearth 
stones  ;  only  a  lamb,  timid  of  separation  from  the  fold, 
called  anxiously  in  the  valley  beyond  the  crest  of  the 
opposite  hill;  only  the  summoning  whistle  of  a  quail 
came  sweet  and  clear  from  the  depths  of  a  neighboring 
thicket.  Through  all  the  air  floated  that  spirit  of  vast 
loneliness  which  at  seasons  seems  to  steal  like  a  human 
mood  over  the  breast  of  the  great  earth  and  leave  her 
estranged  from  her  transitory  children.  At  such  an 
hour  the  heart  takes  wing  for  home,  if  any  home  it  have; 
or  when,  if  homeless,  it  feels  the  quick  stir  of  that  yearn 
ing  for  the  evening  fireside  with  its  half-circle  of  trusted 
faces  young  and  old,  and  its  bonds  of  love  and  mar 
riage,  those  deepest,  most  enchanting  realities  to  the 
earthly  imagination.  The  very  landscape,  barren  and 
dead,  but  framing  the  simple  picture  of  a  home,  spoke 
to  the  beholder  the  everlasting  poetry  of  the  race. 

But  Sister  Dolorosa,  standing  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
whence  the  whole  picture  could  be  seen,  yet  saw  nothing 
of  it.  Out  of  the  western  sky  there  streamed  an  inde 
scribable  splendor  of  many-hued  light,  and  far  into  the 
depths  of  this  celestial  splendor  her  steadfast  eyes  were 
gazing. 

She  seemed  caught  up  to  some  august  height  of  holy 
meditation.  Her  motionless  figure  was  so  lightly  poised 
that  her  feet,  just  visible  beneath  the  hem  of  her  heavy 
black  dress,  appeared  all  but  rising  from  the  dust  of  the 
path-way  ;  her  pure  and  gentle  face  was  upturned,  so 
that  the  dark  veil  fell  away  from  her  neck  and  shoul 
ders;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted;  her  breath  came 
and  went  so  imperceptibly  that  her  hands  did  not  ap 
pear  to  rise  and  fall  as  they  clasped  the  cross  to  her 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  177 

bosom-  Exquisite  hands  they  were — most  exquisite — 
gleaming  as  white  as  lilies  against  the  raven  blackness 
of  her  dress*  and  with  startling  fitness  of  posture,  the 
longest  finger  of  the  right  hand  pointed  like  a  marble 
index  straight  towards  a  richly  embroidered  symbol 
over  her  left  breast— the  mournful  symbol  of  a  crimson 
heart  pierced  by  a  crimson  spear.  Whether  attracted 
by  the  lily-white  hands  or  by  the  red  symbol,  a  butter 
fly,  which  had  been  flitting  hither  and  thither  in  search 
of  the  gay  races  of  the  summer  gone,  now  began  to 
hover  nearer,  and  finally  lighted  unseen  upon  the  glow 
ing  spot.  Then,  as  if  disappointed  not  to  find  it  the 
bosom  of  some  rose,  or  lacking  hope  and  strength  for 
further  quest — there  it  rested,  slowly  fanning  with  its 
white  wings  the  tortured  emblem  of  the  divine  de 
spair. 

Lower  sank  the  sun,  deeper  and  more  wide-spread  the 
splendor  of  the  sky,  more  rapt  and  radiant  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face.  A  painter  of  the  angelic  school,  see 
ing  her  standing  thus,  might  have  named  the  scene  the 
transfiguration  of  angelic  womanhood.  What  but  heav 
enly  images  should  she  be  gazing  on  ;  or  where  was 
she  in  spirit  but  flown  out  of  the  earthly  autumn  fields 
and  gone  away  to  sainted  vespers  in  the  cloud-built 
realm  of  her  own  fantasies  ?  Perhaps  she  was  now  en 
tering  yon  vast  cathedral  of  the  skies,  whose  white 
spires  touched  blue  eternity  ;  or  toiling  devoutly  up  yon, 
gray  mount  of  Calvary,  with  its  blackened  crucifix  fall 
ing  from  the  summit. 

Standing  thus  towards  the  close  of  the  day,  Sister 
Dolorosa  had  not  yet  passed  out  of  that  ideal  time 
which  is  the  clear  white  dawn  of  life.  She  was  still 
within  the  dim,  half-awakened  region  of  womanhood, 

12 


IjS  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

whose  changing  mists  are  beautiful  illusions,  whose 
shadows  about  the  horizon  are  the  mysteries  of  poetic 
feeling,  whose  purpling  east  is  the  palette  of  the  imag 
ination,  and  whose  upspringing  skylark  is  blithe  aspi 
ration  that  has  not  yet  felt  the  weight  of  the  clod  it  soars 
within.  Before  her  still  was  the  full  morning  of  reality 
and  the  burden  of  the  mid-day  hours. 

But  if  the  history  of  any  human  soul  could  be  per 
fectly  known,  who  would  wish  to  describe  this  passage 
from  the  dawn  of  the  ideal  to  the  morning  of  the  real — 
this  transition  from  life  as  it  is  imagined  through  hopes 
and  dreams  to  life  as  it  is  known  through  action  and 
submission  ?  It  is  then  that  within  the  country  of  the 
soul  occur  events  too  vast,  melancholy,  and  irreversible 
to  be  compared  to  anything  less  than  the  downfall  of 
splendid  dynasties,  or  the  decay  of  an  august  religion. 
It  is  then  that  there  leave  us  forever  bright,  aerial  spir 
its  of  the  fancy,  separation  from  whom  is  like  grief  for 
the  death  of  the  beloved. 

The  moment  of  this  transition  had  come  in  the  life 
of  Sister  Dolorosa,  and  unconsciously  she  was  taking 
her  last  look  at  the  gorgeous  western  clouds  from  the 
hill-tops  of  her  chaste  life  of  dreams. 

A  flock  of  frightened  doves  sped  hurtling  low  over 
her  head,  and  put  an  end  to  her  reverie.  Pressing  the  ro 
sary  to  her  lips,  she  turned  and  walked  on  towards  the 
.convent,  not  far  away.  The  little  foot-path  across  the 
fields  was  well  trodden  and  familiar,  running  as  it  did 
between  the  convent  and  the  farm-house  behind  her 
in  which  lived  old  Ezra  and  Martha  Cross;  and  as  she 
followed  its  windings,  her  thoughts,  as  is  likely  to  be 
true  of  the  thoughts  of  nuns,  came  home  from  the 
clouds  to  the  humblest  concerns  of  the  earth,  and  she 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  179 

began  to  recall  certain  incidents  of  the  visit  from  which 
she  was  returning. 

The  aged  pair  were  well  known  to  the  Sisters.  Their 
daughters  had  been  educated  at  the  convent ;  and,  al 
though  these  were  married  and  scattered  now,  the  tie 
then  formed  had  since  become  more  close  through 
their  age  and  loneliness.  Of  late  word  had  come  to  the 
Mother  Superior  that  old  Martha  was  especially  ailing, 
and  Sister  Dolorosa  had  several  times  been  sent  on  vis 
its  of  sympathy.  For  reasons  better  to  be  understood 
later  on,  these  visits  had  had  upon  her  the  effect  of  an 
April  shower  on  a  thirsting  rose.  Her  missions  of  mer 
cy  to  the  aged  couple  over,  for  a  while  the  white  taper 
of  ideal  consecration  to  the  Church  always  burned  in  her 
bosom  with  clearer,  steadier  lustre,  as  though  lit  afresh 
from  the  Light  eternal.  But  to-day  she  could  not  es 
cape  the  conviction  that  these'visits  were  becoming  a 
source  of  disquietude;  for  the  old  couple,  forgetting  the 
restrictions  which  her  vows  put  upon  her  very  thoughts, 
had  spoken  of  things  which  it  was  trying  for  her  to 
hear  —  love-making,  marriage,  and  children.  In  vain 
had  she  tried  to  turn  away  from  the  proffered  share  in 
such  parental  confidences.  The  old  mother  had  even 
read  aloud  a  letter  from  her  eldest  son,  telling  them  of 
his  approaching  marriage  and  detailing  the  hope  and 
despair  of  his  wooing.  With  burning  cheeks  and  down 
cast  eyes  Sister  Dolorosa  had  listened  till  the  close  and 
then  risen  and  quickly  left  the  house. 

The  recollection  of  this  returned  to  her  now  as  she 
pursued  her  way  along  the  foot-path  which  descended 
into  the  valley ;  and  there  came  to  her,  she  knew  not 
whence  or  why,  a  piercing  sense  of  her  own  separation 
from  all  but  the  divine  love.  The  cold  beauty  of  un- 


l8o  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

fallen  spirituality  which  had  made  her  august  as  she 
stood  on  the  hill-top  died  away,  and  her  face  assumed  a 
tenderer,  more  appealing  loveliness,  as  there  crept  over 
it,  like  a  shadow  over  snow,  that  shy  melancholy  under 
which  those  women  dwell  who  have  renounced  the  great 
drama  of  the  heart.  She  resolved  to  lay  her  trouble 
before  the  Mother  Superior  to-night,  and  ask  that  some 
other  Sister  be  sent  hereafter  in  her  stead.  And  yet 
this  resolution  gave  her  no  peace,  but  a  throb  of  pain 
ful  renunciation  ;  and  since  she  was  used  to  the  most 
scrupulous  examination  of  her  conscience,  to  detect  the 
least  presence  of  evil,  she  grew  so  disturbed  by  this 
state  of  her  heart  that  she  quite  forgot  the  windings  of 
the  path-way  along  the  edge  of  a  field  of  corn,  and  was 
painfully  startled  when  a  wounded  bird,  lying  on  the 
ground  a  few  feet  in  front  of  her,  flapped  its  wings  in  a 
struggle  to  rise.  Love*and  sympathy  were  the  strong 
est  principles  of  her  nature,  and  with  a  little  outcry  she 
bent  over  and  took  it  up ;  but  scarce  had  she  done  so, 
when,  with  a  final  struggle,  it  died  in  her  hand.  A  sin 
gle  drop  of  blood  oozed  out  and  stood  on  its  burnished 
breast. 

She  studied  it — delicate  throat,  silken  wings,  wound 
ed  bosom — in  the  helpless  way  of  a  woman,  unwilling 
to  put  it  down  and  leave  it,  yet  more  unwilling  to 
take  it  away.  Many  a  time,  perhaps,  she  had  watched 
this  very  one  flying  to  and  fro  among  its  fellows  in  the 
convent  elms.  Strange  that  any  one  should  be  hunting 
in  these  fields,  and  she  looked  quickly  this  way  and 
that.  Then,  with  a  surprised  movement  of  the  hands 
that  caused  her  to  drop  the  bird  at  her  feet,  Sister  Dol- 
orosa  discovered,  standing  half  hidden  in  the  edge  of 
the  pale-yellow  corn  a  few  yards  ahead,  wearing  a  hunt- 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  l8l 

ing-dress,  and  leaning  on'the  muzzle  of  his  gun,  a  young 
man  who  was  steadfastly  regarding  her.  For  an  instant 
they  stood  looking  each  into  the  other's  face,  taken  so 
unprepared  as  to  lose  all  sense  of  convention.  Their 
meeting  was  as  unforeseen  as  another  far  overhead, 
where  two  white  clouds,  long  shepherded  aimlessly  and 
from  opposite  directions  across  the  boundless  pastures 
by  the  unreasoning  winds,  touched  and  melted  into  one. 
Then  Sister  Dolorosa,  the  first  to  regain  self-possession, 
gathered  her  black  veil  closely  about  her  face,  and  ad 
vancing  with  an  easy,  rapid  step,.bo\ved  low  with  down 
cast  eyes  as  she  passed  him,  and  hurried  on  towards 
the  convent. 

She  had  not  gone  far  before  she  resolved  to  say 
nothing  about  the  gossip  to  which  she  had  listened. 
Of  late  the  Mother  Superior  had  seemed  worn  with  se 
cret  care  and  touched  with  solicitude  regarding  her. 
Would  it  be  kind  to  make  this  greater  by  .complaining 
like  a  weak  child  of  a  trivial  annoyance  ?  -She  took 
her  conscience  proudly  to  task  for  ever  .having  been 
disturbed  by  anything  so  unworthy.  Arid  as 'for  this 
meeting  in  the  field,  even  to  mention  that  would  be  to 
give  it  a  certain  significance,  whereas  it  had  none  what 
ever.  A  stranger  had  merely  crossed  her  path  a  mo 
ment  and  then  gone  his  way.  She  would  forget  the 
occurrence  herself  as  soon  as  she  could  recover  from 
her  physical  agitation. 


182  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 


II. 

The  Convent  of  the  Stricken  Heart  is  situated  in 
that  region  of  Kentucky  which  early  became  the  great 
field  of  Catholic  immigration.  It  was  established  in 
the  first  years  of  the  present  century,  when  mild  Do 
minicans,  starving  Trappists,  and  fiery  Jesuits  hastened 
into  the  green  wildernesses  of  the  West  with  the  hope 
of  turning  them  into  religious  vineyards.  Then,  ac 
cordingly,  derived  from  such  sources  as  the  impassion 
ed  fervor  of  Italy,  the  cold,  monotonous  endurance  of 
Flanders,  and  the  dying  sorrows  of  ecclesiastical  France, 
there  sprang  up  this  new  flower  of  faith,  unlike  any 
that  ever  bloomed  in  pious- -Christendom.  From  the 
meagrest  beginning,  the  order  has  slowly  grown  rich 
and  powerful,  so  that  it  now  has  branches  in  many 
States,  as  far  as  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

The  convent  is  situated  in  a  retired  region  of  coun 
try,  remote  from  any  village  or  rural  highway.  The 
very  peace  of  the  blue  skies  seems  to  descend  upon  it. 
Around  the  walls  great  elms  stand  like  tranquil  senti 
nels,  or  at  a  greater  distance  drop  their  shadows  on 
the  velvet  verdure  of  the  artificial  lawns.  Here,  when 
the  sun  is  hot,  some  white  veiled  novice  may  be  seen 
pacing  soft -footed  and  slow,  while  she  fixes  her  sad 
eyes  upon  pictures  drawn  from  the  literature  of  the 
Dark  Ages,  or  fights  the  first  battle  with  her  young 
heart,  which  would  beguile  her  to  heaven  by  more  joc 
und  path-ways.  Drawn  by  the  tranquillity  of  this  re 
treat — its  trees  and  flowers  and  dews — all  singing-birds 
of  the  region  come  here  to  build  and  brood.  No  other 
sounds  than  their  pure  cadences  disturb  the  echoless 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  183 

air  except  the  simple  hymns  around  the  altar,  the  ves 
per  bell,  the  roll  of  the  organ,  the  deep  chords  of  the 
piano,  or  the  thrum  of  the  harp.  It  may  happen,  in 
deed,  that  some  one  of  the  Sisters,  climbing  to  the  ob 
servatory  to  scan  the  horizon  of  her  secluded  world, 
will  catch  the  faint  echoes  of  a  young  ploughman  in  a 
distant  field  lustily  singing  of  the  honest  passion  in  his 
heart,  or  hear  the  shouts  of  happy  harvesters  as  they 
move  across  the  yellow  plains.  The  population  scat 
tered  around  the  convent  domain  are  largely  of  the 
Catholic  faith,  and  from  all  directions  the  country  is 
threaded  by  foot-paths  that  lead  to  the  church  as  a 
common  shrine.  It  was  along  one  of  these  that  Sister 
Dolorosa,  as  has  been  said,  hastened  homeward  through 
the  falling  twilight. 

When  she  reached  the  convent,  instead  of  seeking 
the  Mother  Superior  as  heretofore  with  news  from  old 
Martha,  she  stole  into  the  shadowy  church  and  knelt 
for  a  long  time  in  wordless  prayer — wordless,  because 
no  petition  that  she  could  frame  appeared  inborn  and 
quieting.  An  unaccountable  remorse  gnawed  the  heart 
out  of  language.  Her  spirit  seemed  parched,  her  will 
was  deadened  as  by  a  blow.  Trained  to  the  most  rig 
orous  introspection,  she  entered  within  herself  and  pen 
etrated  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  her  mind  to  ascertain 
the  cause.  The  bright  flame  of  her  conscience  thus 
employed  was  like  the  turning  of  a  sunbeam  into  a 
darkened  chamber  to  reveal  the  presence  of  a  floating 
grain  of  dust.  But  nothing  could  be  discovered.  It 
was  the  undiscovered  that  rebuked  her  as  it  often  re 
bukes  us  all — the  undiscovered  evil  that  has  not  yet 
linked  itself  to  conscious  transgression.  At  last  she 
rose  with  a  sigh  and,  dejected,  left  the  church. 


184  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

Later,  the  Mother  Superior,  noiselessly  entering  her 
room,  found  her  sitting  at  the  open  window,  her  hands 
crossed  on  the  sill,  her  eyes  turned  outward  into  the 
darkness. 

"  Child,  child,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "  how  uneasy  you 
have  made  me  !  Why  are  you  so  late  returning  ?" 

"  I  went  to  the  church  when  I  came  back,  Mother," 
replied  Sister  Dolorosa,  in  a  voice  singularly  low  and 
composed.  "  I  must  have  returned  nearly  an  hour 
ago." 

"  But  even  then  it  was  late." 

"  Yes,  Mother ;  I  stopped  on  the  way  back  to  look 
at  the  sunset.  The  clouds  looked  like  cathedrals. 
And  then  old  Martha  kept  me.  You  know  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  get  away  from  old  Martha." 

The  Mother  Superior  laughed  slightly,  as  though  her 
anxiety  had  been  removed.  She  was  a  woman  of  com 
manding  presence,  with  a  face  full  of  dignity  and  sweet 
ness,  but  furrowed  by  lines  of  difficult  resignation. 

"Yes;  I  know," she  answered.  "  Old  Martha's  tongue 
is  like  a  terrestrial  globe ;  the  whole  world  is  mapped 
out  on  it,  and  a  little  movement  of  it  will  show  you  a 
continent.  How  is  her  rheumatism?" 

"  She  said  it  was  no  worse,"  replied  Sister  Dolorosa, 
absently. 

The  Mother  Superior  laughed  again.  "Then  it  must 
be  better.  Rheumatism  is  always  either  better  or 
worse." 

"Yes,  Mother." 

This  time  the  tone  caught  the  Mother  Superior's  ear. 

"  You  seem  tired.     Was  the  walk  too  long  ?" 

"  I  enjoyed  the  walk,  Mother.     I  do  not  feel  tired." 

They  had  been  sitting  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  185 

The  Mother  Superior  now  crossed,  and,  laying  her 
hand  softly  on  Sister  Dolorosa's  head,  pressed  it  back 
ward  and  looked  fondly  down  into  the  upturned  eyes. 

"  Something  troubles  you.     What  has  happened  ?'' 

There  is  a  tone  that  goes  straight  to  the  hearts  of 
women  in  trouble.  If  there  are  tears  hidden,  they 
gather  in  the  eyes.  If  there  is  any  confidence  to  give, 
it  is  given  then. 

A  tremor,  like  that  of  a  child  with  an  unspent  sob, 
passed  across  Sister  Dolorosa's  lips,  but  her  eyes  were 
tearless. 

"  Nothing  has  happened,  Mother.  I  do  not  know 
why,  but  I  feel  disturbed  and  unhappy."  This  was  the 
only  confidence  that  she  had  to  give. 

The  Mother  Superior  passed  her  hand  slowly  across 
the  brow,  white  and  smooth  like  satin.  Then  she  sat 
down,  and  as  Sister  Dolorosa  slipped  to  the  floor  be 
side  her  she  drew  the  young  head  to  her  lap  and  folded 
her  aged  hands  upon  it.  What  passionate,  barren  loves 
haunt  the  hearts  of  women  in  convents !  Between  these 
two  there  existed  a  tenderness  more  touching  than  the 
natural  love  of  mother  and  child. 

"  You  must  not  expect  to  know  at  all  times,"  she 
said,  with  grave  gentleness.  "  To  be  troubled  without 
any  visible  cause  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  our  nature. 
As  you  grow  older  you  will  understand  this  better.  '  We 
are  forced  to  live  in  conscious  possession  of  all  faculties, 
all  feelings,  whether  or  not  there  are  outward  events  to 
match  them.  Therefore  you  must  expect  to  have  anx 
iety  within  when  your  life  is  really  at  peace  without ; 
to  have  moments  of  despair  when  no  failure  threatens; 
to  have  your  heart  wrung  with  sympathy  when  no  ob 
ject  of  sorrow  is  nigh  ;  to  be  spent  with  the  need  of 


1 86  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

loving  when  there  is  no  earthly  thing  to  receive  your 
love.  This  is  part  of  woman's  life,  and  of  all  women, 
especially  those  who,  like  you,  must  live  not  to  stifle  the 
tender,  beautiful  forces  of  nature,  but  to  ennoble  and 
unite  them  into  one  divine  passion.  Do  not  think, 
therefore,  to  escape  these  hours  of  heaviness  and  pain. 
No  saint  ever  walked  this  earth  without  them.  Per 
haps  the  lesson  to  be  gained  is  this  :  that  we  may  feel 
things  before  they  happen,  so  that  if  they  do  happen 
we  shall  be  disciplined  to  bear  them." 

The  voice  of  the  Mother  Superior  had  become  low 
and  meditative ;  and,  though  resting  on  the  bowed 
head,  her  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  events  long  past.  Af 
ter  the  silence  of  a  few  moments  she  continued  in  a 
brighter  tone  : 

"  But,  my  child,  I  know  the  reason  of  your  unhappi- 
ness.  I  have  warned  you  that  excessive  ardor  would 
leave  you  overwrought  and  nervous ;  that  you  were  be 
ing  carried  too  far  by  your  ideals.  You  live  too  much 
in  your  sympathies  and  your  imagination.  Patience, 
my  little  St.  Theresa !  No  saint  was  ever  made  in  a 
day,  and  it  has  taken  all  the  centuries  of  the  Church  to 
produce  its  martyrs.  Only  think  that  your  life  is  but 
begun  ;  there  will  be  time  enough  to  accomplish  every 
thing.  I  have  been  watching,  and  I  know.  This  is 
why  I  send  you  to  old  Martha.  I  want  you  to  have  the 
rest,  the  exercise,  the  air  of  the  fields.  Go  again  to 
morrow,  and  take  her  the  ointment.  I  found  it  while 
you  were  gone  to-day.  It  has  been  in  the  Church  for 
centuries,  and  you  know  this  bottle  came  from  blessed 
Loretto  in  Italy.  It  may  do  her  some  good.  And, 
for  the  next  few  days,  less  reading  and  study." 

"  Mother  !"  Sister  Dolorosa  spoke  as  though  she  had 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  187 

not  been  listening.  "What  would  become  of  me  if  I 
should  ever — if  any  evil  should  ever  befall  me  ?" 

The  Mother  Superior  stretched  her  hands  out  over 
the  head  on  her  knees  as  some  great,  fierce,  old,  gray 
eagle,  scarred  and  strong  with  the  storms  of  life,  might 
make  a  movement  to  shield  its  imperilled  young.  The 
tone  in  which  Sister  Dolorosa  had  spoken  startled  her 
as  the  discovered  edge  of  a  precipice.  It  was  so  quiet, 
so  abrupt,  so  terrifying  with  its  suggestion  of  an  abyss. 
For  a  moment  she  prayed  silently  and  intensely. 

"  Heaven  mercifully  shield  you  from  harm !"  she  then 
said,  in  an  awe -stricken  whisper.  "But,  timid  lamb, 
what  harm  can  come  to  you  ?" 

Sister  Dolorosa  suddenly  rose  and  stood  before  the 
Mother  Superior. 

"  I  mean,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor  and 
her  voice  scarcely  audible — "  I  mean — if  I  should  ever 
fail,  would  you  cast  me  out  ?" 

"My  child! — Sister! — Sister  Dolorosa  !  — Cast  you 
out !" 

The  Mother  Superior  started  up  and  folded  her  arms 
about  the  slight,  dark  figure,  which  at  once  seemed  to 
be  standing  aloof  with  infinite  loneliness.  For  some 
time  she  sought  to  overcome  this  difficult,  singular 
mood. 

"  And  now,  my  daughter,"  she  murmured  at  last,  "go 
to  sleep  and  forget  these  foolish  fears.  I  am  near 
you !"  There  seemed  to  be  a  fortress  of  sacred  pro 
tection  and  defiance  in  these  words ;  but  the  next  in 
stant  her  head  was  bowed,  her  upward-pointing  finger 
raised  in  the  air,  and  in  a  tone  of  humble  self-correction 
she  added:  "Nay,  not  I;  the  Sleepless  guards  you! 
Good-night." 


1 83  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

Sister  Dolorosa  lifted  her  head  from  the  strong 
shoulder  and  turned  her  eyes,  now  luminous,  upon  the 
troubled  face. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mother !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  scorn 
ful  resolution.  "  Never — never  again  will  I  disturb  you 
with  such  weakness  as  I  have  shown  to-night.  I  know 
that  no  evil  can  befall  me !  Forgive  me,  Mother. 
Good-night." 

While  she  sleeps  learn  her  history.  Pauline  Cam- 
bron  was  descended  from  one  of  those  sixty  Catholic 
families  of  Maryland  that  formed  a  league  in  1785  for 
the  purpose  of  emigrating  to  Kentucky  without  the 
rending  of  social  ties  or  separation  from  the  rites  of 
their  ancestral  faith.  Since  then  the  Kentucky  branch 
of  the  Cambrons  has  always  maintained  friendly  rela 
tions  with  the  Maryland  branch,  which  is  now  repre 
sented  by  one  of  the  wealthy  and  cultivated  families  of 
Baltimore.  On  one  side  the  descent  is  French ;  and, 
as  far  back  as  this  can  be  traced,  there  runs  a  tradi 
tion  that  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  its  women  be 
came  barefoot  Carmelite  nuns  in  the  various  monas 
teries  of  France  or  on  some  storm-swept  island  of  the 
Mediterranean  Sea. 

The  first  of  the  Kentucky  Cambrons  settled  in  that 
part  of  the  State  in  which  nearly  a  hundred  years  later 
lived  the  last  generation  of  them— the  parents  of  Pau 
line.  Of  these  she  was  the  only  child,  so  that  upon  her 
marriage  depended  the  perpetuation  of  the  Kentucky 
family.  It  gives  to  the  Protestant  mind  a  startling  in 
sight  into  the  possibilities  of  a  woman's  life  and  des 
tiny  in  Kentucky  to  learn  the  nature  of  the  literature 
by  which  her  sensitive  and  imaginative  character  was 
from  the  first  impressed.  This  literature  covers  a  field 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  189 

wholly  unknown  to  the  ordinary  student  of  Kentucky 
history.  It  is  not  to  be  found  in  well-known  works,  but 
in  the  letters,  reminiscences,  and  lives  of  foreign  priests, 
and  in  the  kindling  and  heroic  accounts  of  the  estab 
lishment  of  Catholic  missions.  It  abounds  in  such 
stories  as  those  of  a  black  friar  fatally  thrown  from  a 
wild  horse  in  the  pathless  wilderness ;  of  a  gray  friar 
torn  to  pieces  by  a  saw-mill ;  of  a  starving  white  friar 
stretched  out  to  die  under  the  green  canopy  of  an  oak ; 
of  priests  swimming  half-frozen  rivers  with  the  sacred 
vestments  in  their  teeth  ;  of  priests  hewing  logs  for  a 
hut  in  which  to  celebrate  the  mass ;  of  priests  crossing 
and  recrossing  the  Atlantic  and  traversing  Italy  and 
Belgium  and  France  for  money  and  pictures  and  books; 
of  devoted  women  laying  the  foundation  of  powerful 
convents  in  half -ruined  log- cabins,  shivering  on  beds 
of  straw  sprinkled  on  the  ground,  driven  by  poverty  to 
search  in  the  wild  woods  for  dyes  with  which  to  give  to 
their  motley  worldly  apparel  the  hue  of  the  cloister,  and 
dying  at  last,  to  be  laid  away  in  pitiless  burial  without 
coffin  or  sh'roud.  * 

Such  incidents  were  to  her  the  more  impressive  since 
happening  in  part  in  the  region  where  lay  the  Cambron 
estate  ;  and  while  very  young  she  was  herself  repeated 
ly  taken  to  visit  the  scenes  of  early  religious  tragedies. 
Often,  too,  around  the  fireside  there  was  proud  reference 
to  the  convent  life  of  old  France  and  to  the  saintly  zeal 
of  the  Carmelites ;  and  once  she  went  with  her  parents 
to  Baltimore  and  witnessed  the  taking  of  the  veil  by  a 
cousin  of  hers — a  scene  that  afterwards  burned  before 
her  conscience  as  a  lamp  before  a  shrine. 

Is  it  strange  if  under  such  influences,  living  in  a 
country  place  with  few  associates,  reading  in  her  father's 


1 90  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

library  books  that  were  to  be  had  on  the  legends  of  the 
monastic  orders  and  the  lives  of  the  saints — is  it  strange 
if  to  the  young  Pauline  Cambron  this  world  before  long 
seemed  little  else  than  the  battle-field  of  the  Church, 
the  ideal  man  in  it  a  monk,  the  ideal  woman  a  nun,  the 
human  heart  a  solemn  sacrifice  to  Heaven,  and  human 
life  a  vast,  sad  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  eternal  ? 

Among  the  places  which  had  always  appealed  to  her 
imagination  as  one  of  the  heroic  sites  of  Kentucky  his 
tory  was  the  Convent  of  the  Stricken  Heart,  not  far 
away.  Whenever  she  came  hither  she  seemed  to  be 
treading  on  sacred  ground.  Happening  to  visit  it  one 
summer  day  before  her  education  was  completed,  she 
asked  to  be  sent  hither  for  the  years  that  remained. 
When  these  were  past,  here,  with  the  difficult  consent 
of  her  parents,  who  saw  thus  perish  the  last  hope  of  the 
perpetuation  of  the  family,  she  took  the  white  veil. 
Here  at  last  she  hid  herself  beneath  the  black.  Her 
whole  character  at  this  stage  of  its  unfolding  may  be 
understood  from  the  name  she  assumed — Sister  Dolo- 
rosa.  With  this  name  she  wished  not  merely  to  extin 
guish  her  worldly  personality,  but  to  clothe  herself  with 
a  life-long  expression  of  her  sympathy  with  the  sorrows 
of  the  world.  By  this  act  she  believed  that  she  would 
attain  a  change  of  nature  so  complete  that  the  black 
veil  of  Sister  Dolorosa  would  cover  as  in  a  funeral  urn 
the  ashes  which  had  once  been  the  heart  of  Pauline 
Cambron.  And  thus  her  conventual  life  began. 

But  for  those  beings  to  whom  the  span  on  the  sum 
mer-evening  cloud  is  as  nothing  compared  with  that 
fond  arch  of  beauty  which  it  is  a  necessity  of  their  nat 
ure  to  hang  as  a  bow  of  promise  above  every  beloved 
hope — for  such  dreamers  the  sadness  of  life  lies  in  the 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  19  I 

dissipation  of  mystery  and  the  disillusion  of  truth. 
When  she  had  been  a  member  of  the  order  long  enough 
to  see  things  as  they  were,  Sister  Dolorosa  found  her 
self  living  in  a  large,  plain,  comfortable  brick  convent, 
situated  in  a  retired  and  homely  region  of  Southern 
Kentucky.  Around  her  were  plain  nuns  with  the  in 
vincible  contrariety  of  feminine  temperament.  Before 
her  were  plain  duties.  Built  up  around  her  were  plain 
restrictions.  She  had  rushed  with  out-stretched  arms 
towards  poetic  mysteries,  and  clasped  prosaic  reality. 

As  soon  as  the  lambent  flame  of  her  spirit  had  burned 
over  this  new  life,  as  a  fire  before  a  strong  wind  rushes 
across  a  plain,  she  one  day  surveyed  it  with  that  sense 
of  reality  which  sometimes  visits  the  imaginative  with 
such  appalling  vividness.  Was  it  upon  this  dreary 
waste  that  her  soul  was  to  play  out  its  drama  of  ideal 
womanhood  ? 

She  answered  the  question  in  the  only  way  possible 
to  such  a  nature  as  hers.  She  divided  her  life  in 
twain.  Half,  with  perfect  loyalty,  she  gave  out  to  duty; 
the  other,  with  equal  loyalty,  she  stifled  within.  But 
perhaps  this  is  no  uncommon  lot  —  this  unmating  of 
the  forces  of  the  mind,  as  though  one  of  two  singing- 
birds  should  be  released  to  fly  forth  under  the  sky, 
while  the  other — the  nobler  singer — is  kept  voiceless  in 
a  darkened  chamber. 

But  the  Sisters  of  the  Stricken  Heart  are  not  clois 
tered  nuns.  Their  chief  vow  is  to  go  forth  into  the 
world  to  teach.  Scarcely  had  Sister  Dolorosa  been  in 
trusted  with  work  of  this  kind  before  she  conceived  an 
aspiration  to  become  a  great  teacher  of  history  or  liter 
ature,  and  obtained  permission  to  spend  extra  hours  in 
the  convent  library  on  a  wider  range  of  sacred  reading. 


192  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

Here  began  a  second  era  in  her  life.  Books  became 
the  avenues  along  which  she  escaped  from  her  present 
into  an  illimitable  world.  Her  imagination,  beginning 
to  pine,  now  took  wing  and  soared  back  to  the  remote, 
the  splendid,  the  imperial,  the  august.  Her  sympathies, 
finding  nothing  around  her  to  fix  upon,  were  borne  afar 
like  winged  seed  and  rooted  on  the  colossal  ruins  of  the 
centuries.  Her  passion  for  beauty  fed  on  holy  art.  She 
lived  at  the  full  flood  of  life  again. 

If  in  time  revulsion  came,  she  would  live  a  shy,  ex 
quisite,  hidden  life  of  poetry  in  which  she  herself  played 
the  historic  roles.  Now  she  would  become  a  powerful 
abbess  of  old,  ruling  over  a  hundred  nuns  in  an  impreg 
nable  cloister.  To  the  gates,  stretched  on  a  litter, 
wounded  to  death,  they  bore  a  young  knight  of  the 
Cross.  She  had  the  gates  opened.  She  went  forth 
and  bent  over  him ;  heard  his  dying  message ;  at  his 
request  drew  the  plighted  ring  from  his  finger  to  send 
to  another  land.  How  beautiful  he  was !  How  many 
masses — how  many,  many  masses — had  she  not  ordered 
for  the  peace  of  his  soul !  Now  she  was  St.  Agatha, 
tortured  by  the  proconsul ;  now  she  lay  faint  and  cold 
in  an  underground  cell,  and  was  visited  by  Thomas  a 
Kempis,  who  read  to  her  long  passages  from  the  Imi 
tation.  Or  she  would  tire  of  the  past,  and  making 
herself  an  actor  in  -her  own  future,  in  a  brief  hour  live 
out  the  fancied  drama  of  all  her  crowded  years. 

But  whatever  part  she  took  in  this  dream  existence 
and  beautiful  passion-play  of  the  soul,  nothing  attract 
ed  her  but  the  perfect.  For  the  commonplace  she  felt 
a  guileless  scorn. 

Thus  for  some  time  these  unmated  lives  went  on — 
the  fixed  outward  life  of  duty,  and  the  ever-wandering 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  193 

inner  life  of  love.  In  mid-winter,  walking  across  the 
shining  fields,  you  have  come  to  some  little  frost-locked 
stream.  How  mute  and  motionless !  You  set  foot 
upon  it,  the  ice  is  broken,  and  beneath  is  musical  run 
ning  water.  Thus  under  the  chaste,  rigid  numbness  of 
convent  existence  the  heart  of  Sister  Dolorosa  mur 
mured  unheard  and  hurried  away  unseen  to  plains 
made  warm  and  green  by  her  imagination.  But  the  old 
may  survive  upon  memories ;  the  young  cannot  thrive 
upon  hope.  Love,  long  reaching  outward  in  vain,  re 
turns  to  the  heart  as  self-pity.  Sympathies,  if  not  sup 
ported  by  close  realities,  fall  in  upon  themselves  like 
the  walls  of  a  ruined  house.  At  last,  therefore,  even 
the  hidden  life  of  Sister  Dolorosa  grew  weary  of  the 
future  and  the  past,  and  came  home  to  the  present. 

The  ardor  of  her  studies  and  the  rigor  of  her  duties 
combined — but  more  than  either  that  wearing  away  of 
the  body  by  a  restless  mind — had  begun  to  affect  her 
health.  Both  were  relaxed,  and  she  was  required  to 
spend  as  much  time  as  possible  in  the  garden  of  the 
convent.  It  was  like  lifting  a  child  that  has  become 
worn  out  with  artificial  playthings  to  an  open  window 
to  see  the  flowers.  With  inexpressible  relief  she  turned 
from  mediaeval  books  to  living  nature;  and  her  beautiful 
imagination,  that  last  of  all  faculties  to  fail  a  human 
being  in  an  unhappy  lot,  now  began  to  bind  nature  tc 
her  with  fellowships  which  quieted  the  need  of  human 
association.  She  had  long  been  used  to  feign  corres 
pondences  with  the  fathers  of  the  Church  ;  she  now  es 
tablished  intimacies  with  dumb  companions,  and  poured 
out  her  heart  to  them  in  confidence. 

The  distant  woods  slowly  clothing  themselves  in 
green ;  the  faint  perfume  of  the  wild  rose,  running  riot 
13 


194  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

over  some  rotting  fence ;  the  majestical  clouds  about 
the  sunset ;  the  moon  dying  in  the  spectral  skies ;  the 
silken  rustling  of  doves'  wings  parting  the  soft  foliage 
of  the  sentinel  elms ;  landscapes  of  frost  on  her  win 
dow-pane  ;  crumbs  in  winter  for  the  sparrows  on  the 
sill ;  violets  under  the  leaves  in  the  convent  garden ; 
myrtle  on  the  graves  of  the  nuns — such  objects  as  these 
became  the  means  by  which  her  imprisoned  life  was  re 
leased.  On  the  sensuous  beauty  of  the  world  she  spent 
the  chaste  ravishments  of  her  virginal  heart.  Her  love 
descended  on  all  things  as  in  the  night  the  dew  fills 
and  bends  down  the  cups  of  the  flowers. 

A  few  of  these  confidences — written  on  slips  of  pa 
per,  and  no  sooner  written  than  cast  aside — are  given 
here.  They  are  addressed  severally  to  a  white  violet, 
an  English  sparrow,  and  a  butterfly. 

"  I  have  taken  the  black  veil,  but  thou  wearest  the 
white,  and  thou  dwellest  in  dim  cloisters  of  green  leaves 
— in  the  domed  and  many-pillared  little  shrines  that 
line  the  dusty  road-side,  or  seem  more  fitly  built  in  the 
depths  of  holy  woodlands.  How  often  have  I  drawn 
near  with  timid  steps,  and,  opening  the  doors  of  thy  tiny 
oratories,  found  thee  bending  at  thy  silent  prayers — 
bending  so  low  that  thy  lips  touched  the  earth,  while 
the  slow  wind  rang  thine  Angelus !  Wast  thou  bloom 
ing  anywhere  near  when  He  came  into  the  wood  of  the 
thorn  and  the  olive  ?  Didst  thou  press  thy  cool  face 
against  his  bruised  feet  ?  Had  I  been  thou,  I  would 
have  bloomed  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  fed  his  fail 
ing  lungs  with  my  last  breath.  Time  never  destroys 
thee,  little  Sister,  or  stains  thy  whiteness ;  and  thou  wilt 
be  bending  at  thy  prayers  among  the  green  graves  on 
the  twilight  hill-side  ages  after  I  who  lie  below  have 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  195 

finished  mine.  Pray  for  me  then,  pray  for  thine  erring 
sister,  thou  pure-souled  violet !" 

"  How  cold  thou  art !  Shall  I  take  thee  in  and  warm 
thee  on  my  bosom  ?  Ah,  no !  For  I  know  who  thou  art ! 
Not  a  bird,  but  a  little  brown  mendicant  friar,  begging 
barefoot  in  the  snow.  And  thou  livest  in  a  cell  under 
the  convent  eaves  opposite  my  window.  What  ugly 
feet  thou  hast,  little  Father !  And  the  thorns  are  on 
thy  toes  instead  of  about  thy  brow.  That  is  a  bad  sign 
for  a  saint.  I  saw  thee  in  a  brawl  the  other  day  with  a 
mendicant  brother  of  thine  order,  and  thou  drovest  him 
from  roof  to  roof  and  from  icy  twig  to  twig,  screaming 
and  wrangling  in  a  way  to  bring  reproach  upon  the 
Church.  Thou  shouldst  learn  to  defend  a  thesis  more 
gently.  Who  is  it  that  visits  thy  cell  so  often  ?  A  peni 
tent  to  confess  ?  And  dost  thou  shrive  her  freely  ?  I'd 
never  confess  to  thee,  thou  cross  little  Father  !  Thou'dst 
have  no  mercy  on  me  if  I  sinned,  as  sin  I  must  since 
human  I  am.  The  good  God  is  very  good  to  thee  that 
he  keeps  thee  from  sinning  while  he  leaves  me  to  do 
wrong.  Ah,  if  it  were  but  natural  for  me  to  be  per 
fect!  But  that,  little  Father,  is  my  idea  of  heaven.  In 
heaven  it  will  be  natural  for  me  to  be  perfect.  I'll  feed 
thee  no  longer  than  the  winter  lasts,  for  then  thou'lt  be 
a  monk  no  longer,  but  a  bird  again.  And  canst  thou 
tell  me  why  ?  Because,  when  the  winter  is  gone,  thou'lt 
find  a  mate,  and  wert  thou  a  monk  thou'dst  have  none. 
For  thou  knowest  perfectly  well,  little  Father,  that  monks 
do  not  wed." 

"  Xo  fitting  emblem  of  my  soul  art  thou,  fragile 
Psyche,  mute  and  perishable  lover  of  the  gorgeous 
earth.  For  my  soul  has  no  summer,  and  there  is  no 
earthly  object  of  beauty  that  it  may  fly  to  and  rest  upon 


196  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

as  thou  upon  the  beckoning  buds.  It  is  winter  where  I 
live.  All  things  are  cold  and  white,  and  my  soul  flies 
only  above  fresh  fields  of  flowerless  snow.  But  no  blast 
can  chill  its  wings,  no  mire  bedraggle,  or  rude  touch 
fray.  I  often  wonder  whether  thou  art  mute,  or  the  di 
vine  framework  of  winged  melodies.  Thy  very  wings 
are  shaped  like  harps  for  the  winds  to  play  upon.  So, 
too,  my  soul  is  silent  never,  though  none  can  hear  its 
music.  Dost  thou  know  that  I  am  held  in  exile  in  this 
world  that  I  inhabit  ?  And  dost  thou  know  the  flower 
that  I  fly  ever  towards  and  cannot  reach  ?  It  is  the  white 
flower  of  eternal  perfection  that  blooms  and  waits  for 
the  soul  in  Paradise.  Upon  that  flower  I  shall  some 
day  rest  my  wings  as  thou  foldest  thine  on  a  faultless 
rose." 

Harmonizing  with  this  growing  passion  for  the  beauty 
of  the  world — a  passion  that  marked  her  approach  to 
riper  womanhood — was  the  care  she  took  of  her  person. 
The  coarse,  flowing  habit  of  the  order  gave  no  hint  of 
the  curves  and  symmetry  of  the  snow-white  figure  throb 
bing  with  eager  life  within ;  but  it  could  not  conceal  an 
air  of  refinement  and  movements  of  the  most  delicate 
grace.  There  was  likewise  a  suggestion  of  artistic  study 
in  the  arrangement  of  her  veil,  and  the  sacred  symbol 
on  her  bosom  was  embroidered  with  touches  of  elabo 
ration. 

It  was  when  she  had  grown  weary  of  books,  of  the 
imaginary  drama  of  her  life,  and  the  loveliness  of  Nat 
ure,  that  Sister  Dolorosa  was  sent  by  the  Mother  Supe 
rior  on  those  visits  of  sympathy  to  old  Martha  Cross; 
and  it  was  during  her  return  from  one  of  them  that 
there  befell  her  that  adventure  which  she  had  deemed 
too  slight  to  mention. 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  197 


'    III. 

Her  outward  history  was  that  night  made  known  to 
Gordon  Helm  by  old  Martha  Cross.  When  Sister 
Dolorosa  passed  him  he  followed  her  at  a  distance  un 
til  she  entered  the  convent  gates.  It  caused  him  subtle 
pain  to  think  what  harm  might  be  lurking  to  insnare 
her  innocence.  But  subtler  pain  shot  through  him  as 
he  turned  away,  leaving  her  housed  within  that  inac 
cessible  fold. 

\Yho  was  she,  and  from  what  mission  returning  alone 
at  such  an  hour  across  those  darkening  fields  ?  He  had 
just  come  to  the  edge  of  the  corn  and  started  to  follow 
up  the  path  in  quest  of  shelter  for  the  night,  when  he 
had  caught  sight  of  her  on  the  near  hill-top,  outlined 
with  startling  distinctness  against  the  jasper  sky  and 
bathed  in  a  tremulous  sea  of  lovely  light.  He  had  held 
his  breath  as  she  advanced  towards  him.  He  had 
watched  the  play  of  emotions  in  her  face  as  she  paused 
a  few  yards  off,  and  her  surprise  at  the  discovery  of  him 
— the  timid  start ;  the  rounding  of  the  fawn-like  eyes  ; 
the  vermeil  tint  overspreading  the  transparent  purity  of 
her  skin :  her  whole  nature  disturbed  like  a  wind- 
shaken  anemone.  All  this  he  now  remembered  as  he 
returned  along  the  foot-path.  It  brought  him  to  the 
door  of  the  farm-house,  where  he  arranged  to  pass  the 
night. 

"  You  are  a  stranger  in  this  part  of  the  country,"  said 
the  old  housewife  an  hour  later. 

When  he  came  in  she  had  excused  herself  from  rising 
from  her  chair  by  the  chimney-side ;  but  from  that  mo. 
ment  her  eyes  had  followed  him — those  eyes  of  the  old 


198  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

which  follow  the  forms  of  the  young  with  such  despair 
ing  memories.  By  the  chimney-side  sat  old  Ezra,  pow 
erful,  stupid,  tired,  silently  smoking,  and  taking  little  no 
tice  of  the  others.  Hardly  a  chill  was  in  the  air,  but 
for  her  sake  a  log  blazed  in  the  cavernous  fireplace 
and  threw  its  flickering  light  over  the  guest  who  sat  in 
front. 

He  possessed  unusual  physical  beauty — of  the  type 
sometimes  found  in  the  men  of  those  Kentucky  families 
that  have  descended  with  little  admixture  from  English 
stock  ;  body  and  limbs  less  than  athletic,  but  formed  for 
strength  and  symmetry ;  hair  brown,  thick,  and  slightly 
curling  over  the  forehead  and  above  the  ears ;  com 
plexion  blond,  but  mellowed  into  rich  tints  from  sun 
and  open  air ;  eyes  of  dark  gray-blue,  beneath  brows 
low  and  firm;  a  mustache  golden -brown,  thick,  and 
curling  above  lips  red  and  sensuous  ;  a  neck  round  and 
full,  and  bearing  aloft  a  head  well  poised  and  moulded. 
The  irresistible  effect  of  his  appearance  was  an  im 
pression  of  simple  joyousness  in  life.  There  seemed  to 
be  stored  up  in  him  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine  of  his 
land  ;  the  gentleness  of  its  fields ;  the  kindness  of  its 
landscapes.  And  he  was  young— so  young!  To  study 
him  was  to  see  that  he  was  ripe  to  throw  himself  heed 
less  into  tragedy ;  and  that  for  him,  not  once  but  night 
ly,  Endymion  fell  asleep  to  be  kissed  in  his  dreams  by 
encircling  love. 

"  You  are  a  stranger  in  this  part  of  the  country," 
said  the  old  housewife,  observing  the  elegance  of  his 
hunting-dress  and  his  manner  of  high  breeding. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  never  been  in  this  part  of  Kentucky 
before."  He  paused  ;  but  seeing  that  some  account  of 
himself  was  silently  waited  for,  and  as  though  wishing 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  199 

at  once  to  despatch  the  subject,  he  added  :  "  I  am  from 
the  blue -grass  region,  about  a  hundred  miles  north 
ward  of  here.  A  party  of  us  were  on  our  way  farther 
south  to  hunt.  On  the  train  we  fell  in  with  a  gentle 
man  who  told  us  he  thought  there  were  a  good  many 
birds  around  here,  and  I  was  chosen  to  stop  over  to  as 
certain.  We  might  like  to  try  this  neighborhood  as  we 
return,  so  I  left  my  things  at  the  station  and  struck  out 
across  the  country  this  afternoon.  I  have  heard  birds 
in  several  directions,  but  had  no  dog.  However,  I  shot 
a  few  doves  in  a  cornfield." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  birds  close  around  here,  but 
most  of  them  stay  on  the  land  that  is  owned  by  the 
Sisters,  and  they  don't  like  to  have  it  hunted  over.  All 
the  land  between  here  and  the  convent  belongs  to  them 
except  the  little  that's  mine."  This  was  said  somewhat 
dryly  by  the  old  man,  who  knocked  the  ashes  off  his 
pipe  without  looking  up. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  trespassed  ;  but  I  was  not  ex 
pecting  to  find  a  convent  out  in  the  country,  although 
I  believe  I  have  heard  that  there  is  an  abbey  of  Trap- 
pist  monks  somewhere  down  here." 

"  Yes ;  the  abbey  is  not  far  from  here." 

"  It  seems  strange  to  me.  I  can  hardly  believe  I 
am  in  Kentucky,"  he  said,  musingly,  and  a  solemn  look 
came  over  his  face  as  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
sunset  scene. 

The  old  housewife's  keen  eyes  pierced  to  his  secret 
mood. 

"  You  ought  to  go  there." 

"  Do  they  receive  visitors  at  the  convent  ?"  he  asked, 
quickly. 

"Certainly;  the  Sisters  are  very  glad  to  have  stran- 


200  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

gers  visit  the  place.  It's  a  pity  you  hadn't  come  soon 
er.  One  of  the  Sisters  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  you 
might  have  spoken  to  her  about  it." 

This  intelligence  threw  him  into  silence,  and  again 
her  eyes  fed  upon  his  firelit  face  with  inappeasable 
hunger.  She  was  one  of  those  women,  to  be  met  with 
the  world  over  and  in  any  station,  who  are  remarkable 
for  a  love  of  youth  and  the  world,  which  age,  sickness, 
and  isolation  but  deepen  rather  than  subdue ;  and  his 
sudden  presence  at  her  fireside  was  more  than  grateful. 
Not  satisfied  with  what  he  had  told,  she  led  the  talk 
back  to  the  blue-grass  country,  and  got  from  him  other 
facts  of  his  life,  asking  questions  in  regard  to  the  feat 
ures  of  that  more  fertile  and  beautiful  land.  In  return 
she  sketched  the  history  of  her  own  region,  and  dwelt 
upon  its  differences  of  soil,  people,  and  religion — chiefly 
the  last.  It  was  while  she  spoke  of  the  Order  of  the 
Stricken  Heart  that  he  asked  a  question  he  had  long 
reserved. 

"  Do  you  know  the  history  of  any  of  these  Sisters  ?" 

"  I  know  the  history  of  all  of  them  who  are  from 
Kentucky.  I  have  known  Sister  Dolorosa  since  she 
was  a  child." 

"  Sister  Dolorosa !"  The  name  pierced  him  like  a 
spear. 

"The  nun  who  was  here  to-day  is  called  Sister  Dolo 
rosa.  Her  real  name  was  Pauline  Cambron." 

The  fire  died  away.  The  old  man  left  the  room  on 
some  pretext  and  did  not  return.  The  story  that  fol 
lowed  was  told  with  many  details  not  given  here — traced 
up  from  parentage  and  childhood  with  that  fine  tracery 
of  the  feminine  mind  which  is  like  intricate  embroidery, 
and  which  leaves  the  finished  story  wrought  out  on  the 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  2OI 

mind  like  a  complete  design,  with  every  point  fastened 
to  the  sympathies. 

As  soon  as  she  had  finished  he  rose  quickly  from  a 
desire  to  be  alone.  So  well  had  the  story  been  knit  to 
his  mind  that  he  felt  it  an  irritation,  a  binding  pain. 
He  was  bidding  her  good-night  when  she  caught  his 
hand.  Something  in  his  mere  temperament  drew  wom 
en  towards  him. 

"  Are  you  married  ?"  she  asked,  looking  into  his  eyes 
in  the  way  with  which  those  who  are  married  some 
times  exchange  confidences. 

He  looked  quickly  away,  and  his  face  flushed  a  little 
fiercely. 

"  I  am  not  married,"  he  replied,  withdrawing  his 
hand. 

She  threw  it  from  her  with  a  gesture  of  mock,  pleased 
impatience ;  and  when  he  had  left  the  room,  she  sat 
for  a  while  over  the  ashes. 

"If  she  were  not  a  nun" — then  she  laughed  and 
made  her  difficult  way  to  her  bed.  But  in  the  room 
above  he  sat  down  to  think. 

Was  this,  then,  not  romance,  but  life  in  his  own 
State  ?  Vaguely  he  had  always  known  that  farther 
south  in  Kentucky  a  different  element  of  population 
had  settled,  and  extended  into  the  New  World  that 
mighty  cord  of  ecclesiastical  influence  which  of  old  had 
braided  every  European  civilization  into  an  iron  tissue 
of  faith.  But  this  knowledge  had  never  touched  his 
imagination.  In  his  own  land  there  were  no  rural 
Catholic  churches,  much  less  convents,  and  even  among 
the  Catholic  congregations  of  the  neighboring  towns 
he  had  not  many  acquaintances  and  fewer  friends. 

To  descend  as  a  gay  bird  of  passage,  therefore,  upon 


202  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

these  secluded,  sombre  fields,  and  find  himself  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  powerful  Order — to  learn  that  a  girl, 
beautiful,  accomplished,  of  wealth  and  high  social  posi 
tion,  had  of  her  own  choice  buried  herself  for  life  within 
its  bosom — gave  him  a  startling  insight  into  Kentucky 
history  as  it  was  forming  in  his  own  time.  Moreover 
— and  this  touched  him  especially — it  gave  him  a  deep 
er  insight  into  the  possibilities  of  woman's  nature ;  for 
a  certain  narrowness  of  view  regarding  the  true  mission 
of  woman  in  the  world  belonged  to  him  as  a  result  of 
education.  In  the  conservative  Kentucky  society  by 
which  he  had  been  largely  moulded  the  opinion  prevailed 
that  woman  fulfilled  her  destiny  when  she  married  well 
and  adorned  a  home.  All  beauty,  all  accomplishments, 
all  virtues  and  graces,  were  but  means  for  attaining  this 
end. 

As  for  himself  he  came  of  a  stock  which  throughout 
the  generations  of  Kentucky  life,  and  back  of  these  along 
the  English  ancestry,  had  stood  for  the  home ;  a  race 
of  men  with  the  fireside  traits  :  sweet-tempered,  patient, 
and  brave  ;  well-formed  and  handsome  ;  cherishing  tow 
ards  women  a  sense  of  chivalry  ;  protecting  them  fierce 
ly  and  tenderly;  loving  them  romantically  and  quickly 
for  the  sake  of  beauty ;  marrying  early,  and  sometimes 
at  least  holding  towards  their  wives  such  faith,  that 
these  had  no  more  to  fear  from  all  other  women  in  the 
world  than  from  all  other  men. 

Descended  from  such  a  stock  and  moulded  by  the  so 
cial  ideals  of  his  region,  Helm  naturally  stood  for  the 
home  himself.  And  yet  there  was  a  difference.  In  a 
sense  he  was  a  product  of  the  new  Kentucky.  His  in 
fancy  had  been  rocked  on  the  chasm  of  the  Civil  War; 
his  childhood  spent  amid  its  ruins  ;  his  youth  ruled  by 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  203 

two  contending  spirits — discord  and  peace  :  and  earli 
est  manhood  had  come  to  him  only  in  the  morning  of 
the  new  era.  It  was  because  the  path  of  his  life  had 
thus  run  between  light  and  shade  that  his  nature  was 
joyous  and  grave  ;  only  joy  claimed  him  entirely  as  yet, 
while  gravity  asserted  itself  merely  in  the  form  of  sym 
pathy  with  anything  that  suffered,  and  a  certain  seri 
ousness  touching  his  own  responsibility  in  life. 

Reflecting  on  this  responsibility  while  his  manhood 
was  yet  forming,  he  felt  the  need  of  his  becoming  a 
better,  broader  type  of  man,  matching  the  better,  broad 
er  age.  His  father  was  about  his  model  of  a  gentle 
man  ;  but  he  should  be  false  to  the  admitted  progress 
of  the  times  were  he  not  an  improvement  on  his  father. 
And  since  his  father  had,  as  judged  by  the  ideals  of  the 
old  social  order,  been  a  blameless  gentleman  of  the 
rural  blue -grass  kind,  with  farm,  spacious  homestead, 
slaves,  leisure,  and  a  library — to  all  of  which,  except 
the  slaves,  he  would  himself  succeed  upon  his  father's 
death — his  dream  of  duty  took  the  form  of  becoming  a 
rural  blue-grass  gentleman  of  the  newer  type,  reviving 
the  best  traditions  of  the  past,  but  putting  into  his  re 
lations  with  his  fellow-creatures  an  added  sense  of  help 
fulness,  a  broader  sense  of  justice,  and  a  certain  energy 
of  leadership  in  all  things  that  made  for  a  purer,  higher 
human  life.  It  will  thus  be  seen  that  he  took  seriously 
not  only  himself,  but  the  reputation  of  his  State  ;  for  he 
loved  it,  people  and  land,  with  broad,  sensitive  tender 
ness,  and  never  sought  or  planned  for  his  future  apart 
from  civil  and  social  ends. 

It  was  perhaps  a  characteristic  of  him  as  a  product 
of  the  period  that  he  had  a  mind  for  looking  at  his  life 
somewhat  abstractedly  and  with  a  certain  thought-out 


204  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

plan ;  for  this  disposition  of  mind  naturally  belongs  to 
an  era  when  society  is  trembling  upon  the  brink  of  new 
activities  and  forced  to  the  discovery  of  new  ideals.  But 
he  cherished  no  religious  passion,  being  committed  by 
inheritance  to  a  mild,  unquestioning,  undeviating  Prot 
estantism.  His  religion  was  more  in  his  conduct  than 
in  his  prayers,  and  he  tried  to  live  its  precepts  instead 
of  following  them  from  afar.  Still,  his  make  was  far 
from  heroic.  He  had  many  faults ;  but  it  is  less  impor 
tant  to  learn  what  these  were  than  to  know  that,  as  far 
as  he  was  aware  of  their  existence,  he  was  ashamed  of 
them,  and  tried  to  overcome  them. 

Such,  in  brief,  were  Pauline  Cambron  and  Gordon 
Helm  :  coming  from  separate  regions  of  Kentucky,  de 
scended  from  unlike  pasts,  moulded  by  different  influ 
ences,  striving  towards  ends  in  life  far  apart  and  hos 
tile.  And  being  thus,  at  last  they  slept  that  night. 

When  she  had  been  left  alone,  and  had  begun  to  pre 
pare  herself  for  bed,  across  her  mind  passed  and  re- 
passed  certain  words  of  the  Mother  Superior,  stilling 
her  spirit  like  the  waving  of  a  wand  of  peace  :  "  To  be 
troubled  without  any  visible  cause  is  one  of  the  myste 
ries  of  our  nature."  True,  before  she  fell  asleep  there 
rose  all  at  once  a  singularly  clear  recollection  of  that 
silent  meeting  in  the  fields ;  but  her  prayers  fell  thick 
and  fast  upon  it  like  flakes  of  snow,  until  it  was  chaste 
ly  buned  from  the  eye  of  conscience ;  and  when  she 
slept,  two  tears,  slowly  loosened  from  her  brain  by  some 
repentant  dream,  could  alone  have  told  that  there  had 
been  trouble  behind  her  peaceful  eyes. 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  205 


IV. 

Sister  Dolorosa  was  returning  from  her  visit  to  old 
Martha  on  the  following  afternoon.  When  she  awoke 
that  morning  she  resolutely  put  away  all  thought  of 
what  had  happened  the  evening  before.  She  prayed 
oftener  than  usual  that  day.  She  went  about  all  duties 
with  unwonted  fervor.  When  she  set  out  in  the  after 
noon,  and  reached  the  spot  in  the  fields  where  the 
meeting  had  taken  place,  it  was  inevitable  that  a  nature 
sensitive  and  secluded  like  hers  should  be  visited  by 
some  question  touching  who  he  was  and  whither  he 
had  gone  ;  for  it  did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  he 
would  ever  cross  her  path  again.  Soon  she  reached 
old  Martha's ;  and  then — a  crippled  toad  with  a  subtile 
tongue  had  squatted  for  an  hour  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  and 
Eve,  beguiled,  had  listened.  And  now  she  was  again 
returning  across  the  fields  homeward.  Homeward? 

Early  that  afternoon  Helm  had  walked  across  the 
country  to  the  station,  some  two  miles  off,  to  change  his 
dress,  with  the  view  of  going  to  the  convent  the  next 
day.  As  he  came  back,  he  followed  the  course  which 
he  had  taken  the  day  before,  and  this  brought  him  into 
the  same  foot-path  across  the  fields. 

Thus  they  met  the  second  time.  When  she  saw  him, 
had  she  been  a  bird,  with  one  sudden  bound  she  would 
have  beaten  the  air  down  beneath  her  frightened  wings 
and  darted  high  over  his  head  straight  to  the  convent. 
But  his  step  grew  slower  and  his  look  expectant.  When 
they  were  a  few  yards  apart  he  stepped  out  of  the  path 
into  the  low,  gray  weeds  of  the  field,  and  seemed  ready 


206  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

to  pause;  but  she  had  instinctively  drawn  her  veil  close, 
and  was  passing  on.  Then  he  spoke  quickly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  are  strangers  allowed  to  visit 
the  convent  ?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  courtesy  of  the  tone. 
But  she  did  not  lift  her  face  towards  him.  She  merely 
paused,  though  seeming  to  shrink  away.  He  saw  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  lace  themselves  around  the  cross. 
Then  a  moment  later,  in  a  voice  very  low  and  gentle, 
she  replied,  "The  Mother  Superior  is  glad  to  receive 
visitors  at  the  convent,"  and,  bowing,  moved  away. 

He  stood  watching  her  with  a  quick  flush  of  disap 
pointment.  Her  voice,  even  more  than  her  garb,  had 
at  once  waved  off  approach.  In  his  mind  he  had 
crossed  the  distance  from  himself  to  her  so  often  that 
he  had  forgotten  the  actual  abyss  of  sacred  separation. 
Very  thoughtfully  he  turned  at  last  and  took  his  way 
along  the  foot-path. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  farm-house  the  next  day  to  go 
to  the  convent,  Ezra  joined  him,  merely  saying  that  he 
was  going  also.  The  old  man  had  few  thoughts;  but 
with  that  shrewd  secretiveness  which  is  sometimes  found 
in  the  dull  mind  he  kept  his  counsels  to  himself.  Their 
walk  was  finished  in  silence,  and  soon  the  convent  stood 
before  them. 

Through  a  clear  sky  the  wan  light  fell  upon  it  as  life 
less  as  though  sent  from  a  dead  sun.  The  air  hung 
motionless.  The  birds  were  gone.  Not  a  sound  fell 
upon  the  strained  ear.  Not  a  living  thing  relieved  the 
eye.  And  yet  within  what  tragedies  and  conflicts,  what 
wounds  and  thorns  of  womanhood  !  Here,  then,  she 
lived  and  struggled  and  soared.  An  unearthly  quietude 
came  over  him  as  he  walked  up  the  long  avenue  of 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  2OJ 

elms,  painfully  jarred  on  by  the  noise  of  Ezra's  shuffling 
feet  among  the  dry  leaves.  Joyous  life  had  retired  to 
infinite  remoteness ;  and  over  him,  like  a  preternatural 
chill  in  the  faint  sunlight,  crept  the  horror  of  this  death 
in  life.  Strangely  enough  he  felt  at  one  and  the  same 
time  a  repugnance  to  his  own  nature  of  flesh  and  a 
triumphant  delight  in  the  possession  of  bodily  health, 
liberty — the  liberty  of  the  world  —  and  a  mind  unfet 
tered  by  tradition. 

A  few  feet  from  the  entrance  an  aged  nun  stepped 
from  behind  a  hedge-row  of  shrubbery  and  confronted 
them. 

"Will  you  state  your  business?"  she  said,  coldly, 
glancing  at  Helm  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Ezra,  who  for 
reply  merely  nodded  to  Helm. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  part  of  the  country,  and 
heard  that  I  would  be  allowed  to  visit  the  convent." 

"  Are  you  a  Catholic  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  am  a  Protestant." 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  any  of  the  young  ladies  in 
the  convent  ?:' 

"I  am  not." 

She  looked  him  through  and  through.  He  met  her 
scrutiny  with  frank  unconsciousness. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  I  will  take  your  name  to  the 
Mother  Superior." 

They  followed  her  into  a  small  reception-room,  and 
sat  for  a  long  time  waiting.  Then  an  inner  door  opened, 
and  another  aged  nun,  sweet-faced  and  gentle,  entered 
and  greeted  them  pleasantly,  recognizing  Ezra  as  an 
acquaintance. 

"  Another  Sister  will  be  sent  to  accompany  us,"  she 
said,  and  sat  down  to  wait,  talking  naturally  the  while 


208  SISTER    DOI.OROSA. 

to  the  old  man.  Then  the  door  opened  again,  and  the 
heart  of  Helm  beat  violently ;  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  form,  the  grace.  She  crossed  to  the  Sister,  and 
spoke  in  an  undertone. 

"  Sister  Generose  is  engaged.  Mother  sent  me  in  her 
place,  Sister."  Then  she  greeted  Ezra  and  bowed  to 
Helm,  lifting  to  him  an  instant,  but  without  recognition, 
her  tremulous  eyes.  Her  face  had  the  whiteness  of  al 
abaster. 

"  We  will  go  to  the  church  first,"  said  the  Sister,  ad 
dressing  Helm,  who  placed  himself  beside  her,  the  others 
following. 

When  they  entered  the  church  he  moved  slowly 
around  the  walls,  trying  to  listen  to  his  guide  and  to  fix 
his  thoughts  upon  the  pictures  and  the  architecture. 
Presently  he  became  aware  that  Ezra  had  joined  them, 
and  as  soon  as  pretext  offered  he  looked  back.  In  a 
pew  near  the  door  through  which  they  had  entered  he 
could  just  see  the  kneeling  form  and  bowed  head  of 
Sister  Dolorosa.  There  she  remained  while  they  made 
the  circuit  of  the  building,  and  not  until  they  were  quit 
ting  it  did  she  rise  and  again  place  herself  by  the  side 
of  Ezra.  Was  it  her  last  prayer  before  her  temptation  ? 

Th?y  walked  across  the  grounds  towards  the  old-fash 
ioned  flower-garden  of  the  convent.  The  Sister  opened 
the  little  latticed  gate,  and  the  others  passed  in.  The 
temptation  was  to  begin  in  the  very  spot  where  Love 
had  long  been  wandering  amid  dumb  companions. 

"  Ezra  !"  called  the  aged  Sister,  pausing  just  inside 
the  gate  and  looking  down  at  some  recently  dug  bulbs, 
"  has  Martha  taken  up  her  tender  bulbs  ?  The  frost 
will  soon  be  falling."  The  old  man  sometimes  helped 
at  the  convent  in  garden  work. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  209 

"  Who  is  this  young  man  ?''  she  inquired  carelessly  a 
few  moments  later. 

But  Ezra  was  one  of  those  persons  who  cherish  a  faint 
dislike  of  all  present  company.  Moreover,  he  knew  the 
good  Sister's  love  of  news.  So  he  began  to  resist  her 
with  the  more  pleasure  that  he  could  at  least  evade  her 
questions. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  with  a  mysterious  shake 
of  the  head. 

"  Come  this  way,''  she  said  beguiiingly,  turning  aside 
into  another  walk,  "and  look  at  the  chrysanthemums. 
How  did  you  happen  to  meet  him  ?" 

When  Sister  Dolorosa  and  Helm  found  themselves 
walking  slowly  side  by  side  down  the  garden-path — this 
being  what  he  most  had  hoped  for  and  she  most  had 
feared — there  fell  upon  each  a  momentary  silence  of 
preparation.  Speak  she  must ;  if  only  in  speaking  she 
might  not  err.  Speak  he  could  ;  if  only  in  speaking  he 
might  draw  from  her  more  knowledge  of  her  life,  and  in 
some  becoming  way  cause  her  to  perceive  his  interest 
in  it. 

Then  she,  as  his  guide,  keeping  her  face  turned  tow 
ards  the  border  of  flowers,  but  sometimes  lifting  it  shyly 
to  his,  began  with  great  sweetness  and  a  little  hurriedly, 
as  if  fearing  to  pause  : 

"The  garden  is  not  pretty  now.  It  is  full  of  flowers, 
but  only  a  few  are  blooming.  These  are  daffodils. 
They  bloomed  in  March,  long  ago.  And  here  were 
spring  beauties.  They  grow  wild,  and  do  not  last  long. 
The  Mother  Superior  wished  some  cultivated  in  the 
garden,  but  they  are  better  if  let  alone  to  grow  wild. 
And  here  are  violets,  which  come  in  April.  And  here 
14 


2IO  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

is  Adam  and  Eve,  and  tulips.  They  are  gay  flowers,  and 
bloom  together  for  company.  You  can  see  Adam  and 
Eve  a  long  way  off,  and  they  look  better  at  a  distance. 
These  were  the  white  lilies,  but  one  of  the  Sisters  died, 
and  we  made  a  cross.  That  was  in  June.  Jump-up- 
Johnnies  were  planted  in  this  bed,  but  they  did  not  do 
well.  It  has  been  a  bad  year.  A  storm  blew  the  holly 
hocks  down,  and  there  were  canker-worms  in  the  roses. 
That  is  the  way  with  the  flowers  :  they  fail  one  year,  and 
they  succeed  the  next.  They  would  never  fail  if  they 
were  let  alone.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  them  starting  out 
in  the  Spring  to  be  perfect  each  in  its  own  way.  It  is 
pleasant  to  water  them  and  to  help.  But  some  will  be 
perfect,  and  some  will  be  imperfect,  and  no  one  can  alter 
that.  They  are  like  the  children  in  the  school ;  only 
the  flowers  would  all  be  perfect  if  they  had  their  way, 
and  the  children  would  all  be  wrong  if  they  had  theirs 
— the  poor,  good  children  !  This  is  touch-me-not.  Per 
haps  you  have  never  heard  of  any  such  flower.  And 
there,  next  to  it,  is  love-lies-bleeding.  We  have  not 
much  of  that;  only  this  one  little  plant."  And  she 
bent  over  and  stroked  it. 

His  whole  heart  melted  under  the  white  radiance  of 
her  innocence.  He  had  thought  her  older ;  now  his 
feeling  took  the  form  of  the  purest  delight  in  some  ex 
quisite  child  nature.  And  therefore,  feeling  thus  tow 
ards  her,  and  seeing  the  poor,  dead  garden  with  only 
common  flowers,  which  nevertheless  she  separately 
loved,  oblivious  of  their  commonness,  he  said  with  sud 
den  warmth,  holding  her  eyes  with  his  : 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  my  mother's  garden  and  the 
flowers  that  bloom  in  it."  And  as  he  spoke  there  came 
to  him  .a  vision  of  her  as  she  might  look  in  a  certain 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  211 

secluded  corner  of  it,  where  ran  a  trellised  walk ;  over- 
clambering  roses  pale-golden,  full-blown  or  budding,  and 
bent  with  dew;  the  May  sun  golden  in  the  heavens; 
far  and  near  birds  singing  and  soaring  in  ecstasy ;  the 
air  lulling  the  sense  with  perfume,  quickening  the  blood 
with  freshness ;  and  there,  within  that  frame  of  roses, 
her  head  bare  and  shining,  her  funereal  garb  forever 
laid  aside  for  one  that  matched  the  loveliest  hue  of  living 
nature  around,  a  flower  at  her  throat,  flowers  in  her 
hand,  sadness  gone  from  her  face,  there  the  pure  and 
radiant  incarnation  of  a  too-happy  world,  this  exquisite 
child-nature,  advancing  towards  him  with  eyes  of  love. 

Having  formed  this  picture,  he  could  not  afterwards 
destroy  it ;  and  as  they  resumed  their  walk  he  began 
very  simply  to  describe  his  mother's  garden,  she  listen 
ing  closely  because  of  her  love  for  flowers,  which  had 
become  companions  to  her,  and  merely  saying  dreamily, 
half  to  herself  and  with  guarded  courtesy  half  to  him, 
'•  It  must  be  beautiful." 

"The  Mother  Superior  intends  to  make  the  garden 
larger  next  year,  and  to  have  fine  flowers  in  it,  Ezra.  It 
has  been  a  prosperous  year  in  the  school,  and  there 
will  be  money  to  spare.  This  row  of  lilacs  is  to  be  dug 
up,  and  the  fence  set  back  so  as  to  take  in  the  onion 
patch  over  there.  When  does  he  expect  to  go  away  ?" 
The  aged  Sister  had  not  made  rapid  progress. 

"  I  haven't  heard  him  say,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"  Perhaps  Martha  has  heard  him  say." 

Ezra  only  struck  the  toe  of  his  stout  boot  with  his 
staff. 

"  The  Mother  Superior  will  want  you  to  dig  up  the 
lilacs,  Ezra.  You  can  do  it  better  than  any  one  else." 


212  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  threateningly  at  the 
bushes.  "  I  can  settle  them,"  he  said. 

"  Better  than  any  one  else.  Has  Martha  heard  him 
say  when  he  is  going  away  ?" 

"  To-morrow,"  he  replied,  conceding  something  in 
return  for  the  lilacs. 

"  These  are  the  chrysanthemums.  They  are  white. 
but  some  are  perfect  and  some  are  imperfect,  you  see. 
Those  that  are  perfect  are  the  ones  to  feel  proud  of, 
but  the  others  are  the  ones  to  love." 

"  If  all  were  perfect  would  you  no  longer  love  them  ?" 
he  said  gently,  thinking  how  perfect  she  was  and  how 
easy  it  would  be  to  love  her. 

"  If  all  were  perfect,  I  could  loW  all  alike,  because 
none  would  need  to  be  loved  more  than  others." 

"  And  when  the  flowers  in  the  garden  are  dead,  what 
do  you  find  to  love  then  ?"  he  asked,  laughing  a  little 
and  trying  to  follow  her  mood. 

"It  would  not  be  fair  to  forget  them  because  they 
are  dead.  But  they  are  not  dead  ;  they  go  away  for  a 
season,  and  it  would  not  be  fair  to  forget  them  because 
they  have  gone  away."  This  she  said  simply  and 
seriously  as  though  her  conscience  were  dealing  with 
human  virtues  and  duties. 

"  And  are  you  satisfied  to  love  things  that  are  not 
present  ?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  with  sudden  earnest 
ness. 

"  The  Mother  Superior  will  wish  him  to  take  away  a 
favorable  impression  of  the  convent,"  said  the  Sister. 
"Young  ladies  are  sometimes  sent  to  us  from  that  re 
gion."  And  now,  having  gotten  from  Ezra  the  informa- 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  213 

tion  she  desired  and  turned  their  steps  towards  the 
others,  she  looked  at  Helm  with  greater  interest. 

"  Should  you  like  to  go  upon  the  observatory  ?''  she 
meekly  asked,  pointing  to  the  top  of  the  adjacent  build 
ing.  "From  there  you  can  see  how  far  the  convent 
lands  extend.  Besides,  it  is  the  only  point  that  com 
mands  a  view  of  the  whole  country.'' 

The  scene  of  the  temptation  was  to  be  transferred  to 
the  pinnacle  of  the  temple. 

"  It  is  not  asking  too  much  of  you  to  climb  so  far  for 
my  pleasure  ?" 

"  It  is  our  mission  to  climb,"  she  replied,  wearily ; 
"and  if  our  strength  fails,  we  rest  by  the  way." 

Of  herself  she  spoke  literally ;  for  when  they  came  to 
the  topmost  story  of  the  building,  from  which  the  ob 
servatory  was  reached  by  a  short  flight  of  steps,  she 
sank  into  a  seat  placed  near  as  a  resting-place. 

"  Will  you  go  above,  Sister  ?''  she  said  feebly.  "  I 
will  wait  here." 

On  the  way  up,  also,  the  old  man  had  been  shaking 
his  head  with  a  stupid  look  of  alarm  and  muttering  his 
disapproval. 

"There  is  a  high  railing,  Ezra,"  she  now  said  to  him. 
"  You  could  not  fall."  But  he  refused  to  go  farther ; 
he  suffered  from  vertigo. 

The  young  pair  went  up  alone. 

For  miles  in  all  directions  the  landscape  lay  shimmer 
ing  in  the  autumnal  sunlight— a  poor,  rough,  homely 
land,  with  a  few  farm  •  houses  of  the  plainest  kind. 
Briefly  she  traced  for  him  the  boundary  of  the  convent 
domain.  And  then  he,  thinking  proudly  of  his  own  re 
gion,  now  lying  heavy  in  varied  autumnal  ripeness  and 
teeming  with  noble,  gentle  animal  life ;  with  rolling  past- 


214  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

ures  as  green  as  May  under  great  trees  of  crimson  and 
gold  ;  with  flashing  streams  and  placid  sheets  of  water, 
and  great  secluded  homesteads — he,  in  turn,  briefly  de 
scribed  it ;  and  she,  loving  the  sensuous  beauty  of  the 
world,  listened  more  dreamily,  merely  repeating  over 
and  over,  half  to  herself,  and  with  more  guarded  courtesy 
half  to  him,  "It  must  be  very  beautiful." 

But  whether  she  suddenly  felt  that  she  had  yielded 
herself  too  far  to  the  influence  of  his  words  and  wished 
to  counteract  this,  or  whether  she  was  aroused  to  offset 
his  description  by  another  of  unlike  interest,  scarcely 
had  he  finished  when  she  pointed  towards  a  long 
stretch  of  woodland  that  lay  like  a  mere  wavering  band 
of  brown  upon  the  western  horizon. 

"  It  was  through  those  woods,"  she  said,  her  voice 
trembling  slightly,  "  that  the  procession  of  Trappists 
marched  behind  the  cross  when  they  fled  to  this  coun 
try  from  France.  Beyond  that  range  of  hills  is  the 
home  of  the  Silent  Brotherhood.  In  this  direction," 
she  continued,  pointing  southward,  "  is  the  creek  which 
used  to  be  so  deep  in  winter  that  the  priests  had  to 
swim  it  as  they  walked  from  one  distant  mission  to  an 
other  in  the  wilderness,  holding  above  the  waves  the 
crucifix  and  the  sacrament.  Under  that  tree  down 
there  the  Father  who  founded  this  convent  built  with 
his  own  hands  the  cabin  that  was  the  first  church,  and 
hewed  out  of  logs  the  first  altar.  It  was  from  those 
trees  that  the  first  nuns  got  the  dyes  for  their  vestments. 
On  the  floor  of  that  cabin  they  sometimes  slept  in  mid 
winter  with  no  other  covering  than  an  armful  of  straw. 
Those  were  heroic  days." 

If  she  had  indeed  felt  some  secret  need  to  recover 
herself  by  reciting  the  heroisms  of  local  history,  she 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  215 

seemed  to  have  succeeded.  Her  face  kindled  with 
emotion  ;  and  as  he  watched  it  he  forgot  even  her 
creed  in  this  revelation  of  her  nature,  which  touched  in 
him  also  something  serious  and  exalted.  But  as  she 
ceased  he  asked,  with  peculiar  interest  : 

"  Are  there  any  Kentuckians  among  the  Trappist 
Fathers  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  after  a  momentary  silence,  and  in 
a  voice  lowered  to  great  sadness.  "  There  was  one  a 
few  years  ago.  His  death  was  a  great  blow  to  the  Fa 
thers.  They  had  hoped  that  he  might  some  day  be 
come  the  head  of  the  order  in  Kentucky.  He  was 
called  Father  Palemon." 

For  another  moment  nothing  was  said.  They  were 
standing  side  by  side,  looking  towards  that  quarter  of 
the  horizon  which  she  had  pointed  out  as  the  site  of 
the  abbey.  Then  he  spoke  meditatively,  as  though  his 
mind  had  gone  back  unawares  to  some  idea  that  was 
very  dear  to  him  : 

"  No,  this  does  not  seem  much  like  Kentucky ;  but, 
after  all,  every  landscape  is  essentially  the  same  to  me 
if  there  are  homes  on  it.  Poor  as  this  country  is, 
still  it  is  history;  it  is  human  life.  Here  are  the  eter 
nal  ties  and  relations.  Here  are  the  eternal  needs  and 
duties  ;  everything  that  keeps  the  world  young  and  the 
heart  at  peace.  Here  is  the  unchanging  expression  of 
our  common  destiny,  as  creatures  who  must  share  all 
things,  and  bear  all  things,  and  be  bound  together  in 
life  and  death." 

"  Sister !"  called  up  the  nun  waiting  below,  "is  not 
the  wind  blowing?  Will  you  not  take  cold  ?" 

"  The  wind  is  not  blowing,  Sister,  but  I  am  coming." 

They  turned  their  faces  outward  upon  the  landscape 


2l6  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

once  more.  Across  it  wound  the  little  foot-path  tow 
ards  the  farm-house  in  the  distance.  By  a  common 
impulse  their  eyes  rested  upon  the  place  of  their  first 
meeting.  He  pointed  to  it. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  spot,"  he  said,  impulsively. 

"  Nor  I !" 

Her  words  were  not  spoken.  They  were  not  uttered 
within.  As  unexpectedly  and  silently  as  in  the  remotest 
profound  of  the  heavens  at  midnight  some  palest  little 
star  is  loosened  from  its  orbit,  shoots  a  brief  span,  and 
disappears,  this  confession  of  hers  traced  its  course 
across  the  depths  of  her  secret  consciousness;  but, 
having  made  it  to  herself,  she  kept  her  eyes  veiled,  and 
did  not  look  at  him  again  that  day. 

"  I  think  you  have  now  seen  everything  that  could  be 
of  any  interest,"  the  aged  Sister  said,  doubtfully,  when 
they  stood  in  the  yard  below. 

"  The  place  is  very  interesting  to  me,"  he  answered, 
looking  around  that  he  might  discover  some  way  of  pro 
longing  his  visit. 

"The  graveyard,  Sister.  We  might  go  there."  The 
barely  audible  words  were  Sister  Dolorosa's.  The  scene 
of  the  temptation  was  to  be  transferred  for  the  third 
time. 

They  walked  some  distance  down  a  sloping  hill-side, 
and  stepped  softly  within  the  sacred  enclosure.  A 
graveyard  of  nuns  !  O  Mother  Earth,  all-bearing,  pas 
sion-hearted  mother !  Thou  that  sendest  love  one  for 
another  into  thy  children,  from  the  least  to  the  great 
est,  as  thou  givest  them  life !  Thou  that  livest  by  their 
loves  and  their  myriad  plightings  of  troth  and  myriad 
marriages !  With  what  inconsolable  sorrow  must  thou 
receive  back  upon  thy  bosom  the  chaste  dust  of  lorn 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  2  17 

virgins,  whose  bosoms  thou  didst  mould  for  a  lover's 
arms  and  a  babe's  slumbers  !  As  marble  vestals  of  the 
ancient  world,  buried  and  lost,  they  lie,  chiselled  into  a 
fixed  attitude  of  prayer  through  the  silent  centuries. 

The  aspect  and  spirit  of  the  place  :  the  simple  graves 
placed  side  by  side  like  those  of  the  nameless  poor  or 
of  soldiers  fallen  in  an  unfriendly  land  ;  the  rude  wood 
en  cross  at  the  head  of  each,  bearing  the  sacred  name 
of  her  who  was  dust  below ;  the  once  chirruping  nests 
of  birds  here  and  there  in  the  grass  above  the  song- 
less  lips  ;  the  sad  desolation  of  this  unfinished  end — all 
were  the  last  thing  needed  to  wring  the  heart  of  Helm 
with  dumb  pity  and  an  ungovernable  anguish  of  re 
bellion.  This,  then,  was  to  be  her  portion.  His  whole 
nature  cried  aloud  against  it.  His  ideas  of  human  life, 
civilization,  his  age,  his  country,  his  State,  rose  up  in 
protest.  He  did  not  heed  the  words  of  the  Sister  be 
side  him.  His  thoughts  were  with  Sister  Dolorosa, 
who  followed  with  Ezra  in  a  silence  which  she  had  but 
once  broken  since  her  last  words  to  him.  He  could 
have  caught  her  up  and  escaped  back  with  her  into  the 
liberty  of  life,  into  the  happiness  of  the  world. 

Unable  to  endure  the  place  longer,  he  himself  led 
the  way  out.  At  the  gate  the  Sister  fell  behind  with 
Ezra. 

"  He  seems  deeply  impressed  by  his  visit,"  she  said, 
in  an  undertone,  "and  should  bear  with  him  a  good  ac 
count  of  the  convent.  Note  what  he  says,  Ezra.  The 
order  wants  friends  in  Kentucky,  where  it  was  born 
and  has  flourished ;"  and  looking  at  Sister  Dolorosa 
and  Helm,  who  were  a  short  distance  in  front,  she  add 
ed  to  herself: 

"  In  her,  more  than  in  any  other  one  of  us,  he  will 


2l8  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

behold  the  perfect  spiritual  type  of  the  convent.  By 
her  he  will  be  made  to  feel  the  power  of  the  order  to 
consecrate  women,  in  America,  in  Kentucky,  to  the 
service  of  the  everlasting  Church." 

Meantime,  Sister  Dolorosa  and  Helm  walked  side  by 
side  in  a  silence  that  neither  could  break.  He  was 
thinking  of  her  as  a  woman  of  Kentucky — of  his  own 
generation — and  trying  to  understand  the  motive  that 
had  led  her  to  consecrate  herself  to  such  a  life.  His 
own  ideal  of  duty  was  so  different. 

"  I  have  never  thought,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  voice 
lowered  so  as  to  reach  her  ear  alone — "  I  have  never 
thought  that  my  life  would  not  be  full  of  happiness.  I 
have  never  supposed  I  could  help  being  happy  if  I  did 
my  duty." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  again  they  walked  on  in  si 
lence  and  drew  near  the  convent  building.  There  was 
so  much  that  he  wished  to  say,  but  scarcely  one  of  his 
thoughts  that  he  dared  utter.  At  length  he  said,  with 
irrepressible  feeling : 

"  I  wish  your  life  did  not  seem  to  me  so  sad.  I  wish, 
when  I  go  away  to-morrow7,  that  I  could  carry  away, 
with  my  thoughts  of  this  place,  the  thought  that  you 
are  happy.  As  long  as  I  remember  it  I  wish  I  could 
remember  you  as  being  happy." 

"You  have  no  right  to  remember  me  at  all,"  she  said, 
quickly,  speaking  for  the  nun  and  betraying  the  woman. 

"  But  I  cannot  help  it,"  he  said. 

"  Remember  me,  then,  not  as  desiring  to  be  happy, 
but  as  living  to  become  blessed." 

This  she  said,  breaking  the  long  silence  which  had 
followed  upon  his  too  eager  exclamation.  Her  voice 
had  become  hushed  into  unison  with  her  meek  and  pa- 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  219 

tient  words.  And  then  she  paused,  and,  turning,  waited 
for  the  Sister  to  come  up  beside  them.  Nor  did  she 
even  speak  to  him  again,  merely  bowing  without  lifting 
her  eyes  when,  a  little  later,  he  thanked  them  and  took 
his  leave. 

In  silence  he  and  the  old  man  returned  to  the  farm 
house,  for  his  thoughts  were  with  her.  In  the  garden 
she  had  seemed  to  him  almost  as  a  child,  talking  art 
lessly  of  her  sympathies  and  ties  with  mute  playthings ; 
then  on  the  heights  she  had  suddenly  revealed  herself 
as  the  youthful  transcendent  devotee  ;  and  finally,  amid 
the  scenes  of  death,  she  had  appeared  a  woman  too 
quickly  aged  and  too  early  touched  with  resignation. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  effect  of  convent  life  is  to 
force  certain  faculties  into  maturity  while  others  are  re 
pressed  into  unalterable  unripeness;  so  that  in  such 
instances  as  Sister  Dolorosa's  the  whole  nature  resem 
bles  some  long,  sloping  mountain-side,  with  an  upper 
zone  of  ever-lingering  snow  for  childhood,  below  this  a 
green  vernal  belt  for  maidenhood,  and  near  the  foot 
fierce  summer  heats  and  summer  storms  for  womanhood. 
Gradually  his  plan  of  joining  his  friends  the  next  day 
wavered  for  reasons  that  he  could  hardly  have  named. 

And  Sister  Dolorosa — what  of  her  when  the  day  was 
over  ?  Standing  that  night  in  a  whitewashed,  cell-like 
room,  she  took  off  the  heavy  black  veil  and  hood  which 
shrouded  her  head  from  all  human  vision,  and  then  un 
fastening  at  waist  and  throat  the  heavier  black  vest 
ment  of  the  order,  allowed  it  to  slip  to  the  floor,  reveal 
ing  a  white  under-habit  of  the  utmost  simplicity  of 
design.  It  was  like  the  magical  transformation  of  a 
sorrow -shrouded  woman  back  into  the  shape  of  her 
own  earliest  maidenhood. 


220  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

Her  hair,  of  the  palest  gold,  would,  if  unshorn,  have 
covered  her  figure  in  a  soft,  thick  golden  cloud ;  but 
shorn,  it  lay  about  her  neck  and  ears  in  large,  lustrous 
waves  that  left  defined  the  contour  of  her  beautiful 
head,  and  gave  to  it  the  aerial  charm  that  belongs  to 
the  joyousness  of  youth.  Her  whole  figure  was  relaxed 
into  a  posture  slightly  drooping ;  her  bare  arms,  white 
as  the  necks  of  swans,  hung  in  forgotten  grace  at  her 
sides  ;  her  eyes,  large,  dark,  poetic,  and  spiritual,  were 
bent  upon  the  floor,  so  that  the  lashes  left  their  shadows 
on  her  cheeks,  while  the  delicate,  overcircling  brows 
were  arched  high  with  melancholy.  As  the  nun's  fune 
real  robes  had  slipped  from  her  person  had  her  mind 
slipped  back  into  the  past,  that  she  stood  thus,  all  the 
pure  oval  of  her  sensitive  face  stilled  to  an  expression 
of  brooding  pensiveness  ?  On  the  urn  which  held  the 
ashes  of  her  heart  had  some  legend  of  happy  shapes 
summoned  her  fondly  to  return  ? — some  garden  ?  some 
radiant  playfellow  of  childhood  summers,  already  dim 
but  never  to  grow  dimmer  ? 

Sighing  deeply,  she  stepped  across  the  dark  circle  on 
the  floor  which  was  the  boundary  of  her  womanhood. 
As  she  did  so  her  eyes  rested  on  a  small  table  where 
lay  a  rich  veil  of  white  that  she  had  long  been  embroid 
ering  for  a  shrine  of  the  Virgin.  Slowly,  still  absently, 
she  walked  to  it,  and,  taking  it  up,  threw  it  over  her 
head,  so  that  the  soft  fabric  enveloped  her  head  and 
neck  and  fell  in  misty  folds  about  her  person ;  she 
thinking  the  while  only  of  the  shrine  ;  she  looking  down 
on  this  side  and  on  that,  and  wishing  only  to  judge 
how  well  this  design  and  that  design,  patiently  and 
prayerfully  wrought  out,  might  adorn  the  image  of  the 
Divine  Mother  in  the  church  of  the  convent. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  221 

But  happening  to  be  standing  quite  close  to  the  white 
wall  of  the  room  with  the  lamp  behind  her,  when  she 
raised  her  eyes  she  caught  sight  of  her  shadow,  and 
with  a  low  cry  clasped  her  hands,  and  for  an  instant, 
breathless,  surveyed  it.  No  mirrors  are  allowed  in  the 
convent.  Since  entering  it  Sister  Dolorosa  had  not 
seen  a  reflection  of  herself,  except  perhaps  her  shadow 
in  the  sun  or  her  face  in  a  troubled  basin  of  water. 
Now,  with  one  overwhelming  flood  of  womanly  self-con 
sciousness,  she  bent  forward,  noting  the  outline  of  her 
uncovered  head,  of  her  bared  neck  and  shoulders  and 
arms.  Did  this  accidental  adorning  of  herself  in  the 
veil  of  a  bride,  after  she  had  laid  aside  the  veil  of  the 
Church,  typify  her  complete  relapse  of  nature  ?  And  was 
this  the  lonely  marriage-moment  of  her  betrayed  heart  ? 

For  a  moment,  trembling,  not  before  the  image  on  the 
wall,  but  before  that  vivid  mirror  which  memory  and 
fancy  set  before  every  woman  when  no  real  mirror  is 
nigh,  she  indulged  her  self-surrender  to  thoughts  that 
covered  her,  on  face  and  neck,  with  a  rosy  cloud  more 
maidenly  than  the  white  mist  of  the  veil.  Then,  as  if 
recalled  by  some  lightning  stroke  of  conscience,  with 
fearful  fingers  she  lifted  off  the  veil,  extinguished  the 
lamp,  and,  groping  her  way  on  tiptoe  to  the  bedside, 
stood  beside  it,  afraid  to  lie  down,  afraid  to  pray,  her 
eyes  wide  open  in  the  darkness. 


V. 

Sleep  gathers  up  the  soft  threads  of  passion  that 
have  been  spun  by  us  during  the  day,  and  weaves  them 
into  a  tapestry  of  dreams  on  which  we  see  the  history 
of  our  own  characters.  We  awake  to  find  our  wills 


222  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

more  inextricably  caught  in  the  tissues  of  their  own 
past ;  we  stir,  and  discover  that  we  are  the  heirs  to  our 
dead  selves  of  yesterday,  with  a  larger  inheritance  of 
transmitted  purpose. 

When  Gordon  awoke  the  next  morning  among  his 
first  thoughts  was  the  idea  of  going  on  to  join  his 
friends  that  day,  and  this  thought  now  caused  him  un 
expected  depression.  Had  he  been  older,  he  might 
have  accepted  this  unwillingness  to  go  away  as  the  best 
reason  for  leaving;  but,  young,  and  habitually  self-in 
dulgent  towards  his  desires  when  they  were  not  con 
nected  with  vice,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  with  any 
forecast  of  consequences. 

"  You  ought  not  to  go  away  to-day,"  the  old  house 
wife  said  to  him  in  the  morning,  wishing  to  detain  him 
through  love  of  his  company.  "  To-morrow  will  be  Sun 
day,  and  you  ought  to  go  to  vespers  and  hear  Sister 
Dolorosa  sing.  There  is  not  such  another  voice  in  any 
convent  in  Kentucky." 

"  I  will  stay,"  he  replied,  quickly ;  and  the  next  after 
noon  he  was  seated  in  the  rear  of  the  convent  church, 
surrounded  by  rural  Catholic  worshippers  who  had  as 
sembled  from  the  neighborhood.  The  entire  front  of 
the  nave  on  one  side  was  filled  with  the  black-veiled 
Sisters  of  the  order ;  that  on  the  other  with  the  white- 
veiled  novices — two  far-journeying  companies  of  conse 
crated  souls  who  reminded  him  in  the  most  solemn  way 
how  remote,  how  inaccessible,  was  that  young  pilgrim 
among  them  of  whom  for  a  long  time  now  he  had  been 
solely  thinking.  With  these  two  companies  of  sacrifi 
cial  souls  before  him  he  understood  her  character  in  a 
new  light. 

He  beheld  her  much  as  a  brave,  beautiful  boy  volun- 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  223 

teer,  who,  suddenly  waving  a  bright,  last  adieu  to  gay 
companions  in  some  gay-streeted  town,  from  motives  of 
the  loftiest  heroism,  takes  his  place  in  the  rear  of  pass 
ing  soldiery,  marching  to  misguided  death ;  who,  from 
the  rear,  glowing  with  too  impetuous  ardor,  makes  his 
way  from  rank  to  rank  ever  towards  the  front;  and 
who,  at  last,  bearing  the  heavy  arms  and  wearing  the 
battle-stained  uniform  of  a  veteran,  steps  forward  to  the 
van  at  the  commander's  side  and  sets  his  fresh,  pure 
face  undaunted  towards  destruction.  As  he  thought  of 
her  thus,  deeper  forces  stirred  within  his  nature  than 
had  ever  been  aroused  by  any  other  woman.  In  com 
parison  every  one  that  he  had  known  became  for  the 
moment  commonplace,  human  life  as  he  was  used  to  it 
gross  and  uninspiring,  and  his  own  ideal  of  duty  a 
dwarfish  mixture  of  selfishness  and  luxurious  triviality. 
Impulsive  in  his  recognition  of  nobleness  of  nature 
wherever  he  perceived  it,  for  this  devotedness  of  pur 
pose  he  began  to  feel  the  emotion  which  of  all  that  ever 
visit  the  human  heart  is  at  once  the  most  humbling,  the 
most  uplifting,  and  the  most  enthralling — the  hero-wor 
ship  of  a  strong  man  for  a  fragile  woman. 

The  service  began.  As  it  went  on  he  noticed  here 
and  there  among  those  near  him  such  evidences  of 
restlessness  as  betray  in  a  seated  throng  high-wrought 
expectancy  of  some  pleasure  too  long  deferred.  But  at 
last  these  were  succeeded  by  a  breathless  hush,  as, 
from  the  concealed  organ-loft  above,  a  low,  minor  pre 
lude  was  heard,  groping  and  striving  nearer  and  nearer 
towards  the  concealed  motive,  as  a  little  wave  creeps 
farther  and  farther  along  a  melancholy  shore.  Sudden 
ly,  beautiful  and  clear,  more  tender  than  love,  more 
sorrowful  than  death,  there  floated  out  upon  the  still 


224  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

air  of  the  church  the  cry  of  a  woman's  soul  that  has 
offended,  and  that,  shrinking  from  every  prayer  of 
speech,  pours  forth  its  more  intense,  inarticulate,  and 
suffering  need  through  the  diviner  faculty  of  song. 

At  the  sound  every  ear  was  strained  to  listen.  Hith 
erto  the  wont  had  been  to  hear  that  voice  bear  aloft 
the  common  petition  as  calmly  as  the  incense  rose  past 
the  altar  to  the  roof ;  but  now  it  quivered  over  troubled 
depths  of  feeling,  it  rose  freighted  with  the  burden  of 
self-accusal.  Still  higher  and  higher  it  rose,  borne  tri 
umphantly  upward  by  love  and  aspiration,  until  the 
powers  of  the  singer's  frame  seemed  spending  them 
selves  in  one  superhuman  effort  of  the  soul  to  make  its 
prayer  understood  to  the  divine  forgiveness.  Then,  all 
at  once,  at  the  highest  note,  as  a  bird  soaring  towards 
the  sun  has  its  wings  broken  by  a  shot  from  below,  it 
too  broke,  faltered,  and  there  was  a  silence.  But  only 
for  a  moment :  another  voice,  poor  and  cold,  promptly 
finished  the  song ;  the  service  ended ;  the  people  poured 
out  of  the  church. 

AVhen  Gordon  came  out  there  were  a  few  groups 
standing  near  the  door  talking;  others  were  already 
moving  homeward  across  the  grounds.  Not  far  off  he 
observed  a  lusty  young  countryman,  with  a  frank,  win 
ning  face,  who  appeared  to  be  waiting,  while  he  held  a 
child  that  had  laid  its  bright  head  against  his  tanned, 
athletic  neck.  Gordon  approached  him,  and  said  with 
forced  calmness  : 

"  Do  you  know  what  was  the  matter  in  the  church  ?" 

"  My  wife  has  gone  to  see,"  he  replied,  warmly. 
"Wait;  she'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  Here  she  is  now." 

The  comely,  Sunday-dressed  young  wife  came  up  and 
took  the  child,  who  held  out  its  arms,  fondly  smiling. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  225 

"She  hadn't  been  well,  and  they  didn't  want  her  to 
sing  to-day;  but  she  begged  to  sing,  and  broke  down." 
Saying  this,  the  young  mother  kissed  her  child,  and 
slipping  one  hand  into  the  great  brown  hand  of  her 
husband,  which  closed  upon  it,  turned  away  with  them 
across  the  lawn  homeward. 

When  Sister  Dolorosa,  who  had  passed  a  sleepless, 
prayerless  night,  stood  in  the  organ-loft  and  looked 
across  the  church  at  the  scene  of  the  Passion,  at  the 
shrine  of  the  Virgin,  at  the  white  throng  of  novices 
and  the  dark  throng  of  the  Sisters,  the  common  prayer 
of  whom  was  to  be  borne  upward  by  her  voice,  there 
came  upon  her  like  a  burying  wave  a  consciousness  of 
how  changed  she  was  since  she  had  stood  there  last. 
Thus  at  the  moment  when  Gordon,  sitting  below,  rev 
erently  set  her  far  above  him,  as  one  looks  up  to  a 
statue  whose  feet  are  above  the  level  of  his  head,  she, 
thinking  of  what  she  had  been  and  had  now  become, 
seemed  to  herself  as  though  fallen  from  a  white  ped 
estal  to  the  miry  earth.  But  when,  to  a  nature  like 
hers,  absolute  loyalty  to  a  sinless  standard  of  charac 
ter  is  the  only  law  of  happiness  itself,  every  lapse  into 
transgression  is  followed  by  an  act  of  passionate  self- 
chastisement  and  by  a  more  passionate  outburst  of 
love  for  the  wronged  ideal;  and  therefore  scarce -had 
she  begun  to  sing,  and  in  music  to  lift  up  the  prayer 
she  had  denied  herself  in  words,  before  the  powers  of 
her  body  succumbed,  as  the  strings  of  an  instrument 
snap  under  too  strenuous  a  touch  of  the  musician. 

Gordon  walked  out  of  the  grounds  beside  the  rustic 
young  husband  and  wife,  who  plainly  were  lovers  still. 

"The   Sister  who  sang  has  a  beautiful  voice."  he 
said. 
15 


226  .     SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

"  None  of  them  can  sing  like  her,"  replied  the  wife. 
"  I  love  her  better  than  any  of  the  others." 

"I  tin  sing!"  cried  the  little  girl,  looking  at  Gordon, 
resentfully,  as  though  he  had  denied  her  that  accom 
plishment. 

"  But  you'll  never  sing  in  a  convent,  missy,"  cried 
the  father,  snatching  her  from  her  mother.  "You'll 
sing  for  some  man  till  he  marries  you  as  your  mother 
did  me.  I  was  going  to  join  the  Trappist  monks,  but 
my  wife  said  I  was  too  good  a  sweetheart  to  spoil,  and 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  have  me  herself,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Gordon  with  a  laugh. 

"I'd  have  been  a  Sister  long  ago  if  you  hadn't 
begged  and  begged  me  not,"  was  the  reply,  with  the 
coquettish  toss  of  a  pretty  head. 

"  I  doin'  be  Tap  monk,"  cried  the  little  girl,  looking 
at  Gordon  still  more  assertively,  but  joining  in  the  laugh 
that  followed  with  a  scream  of  delight  at  the  wisdom  of 
her  decision. 

Their  paths  here  diverged,  and  Gordon  walked  slow 
ly  on  alone,  but  not  without  turning  to  watch  the  re 
treating  figures,  his  meeting  with  whom  at  such  a  mo 
ment  formed  an  episode  in  the  history  of  that  passion 
under  the  influence  of  which  he  was  now  rapidly  pass 
ing..  For  as  he  had  sat  in  the  church  his  nature,  which 
was  always  generous  in  its  responsiveness,  had  lent  it 
self  wholly  to  the  solicitations  of  the  service ;  and  for  a 
time  the  stillness,  the  paintings  portraying  the  divine 
sorrow,  the  slow  procession  of  nameless  women,  the  ta 
pers,  the  incense,  the  hoary  antiquity  of  the  ceremonial, 
had  carried  him  into  a  little  known  region  of  his  relig 
ious  feeling.  But  from  this  he  had  been  sharply  re 
called  by  the  suggestion  of  a  veiled  personal  tragedy 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  227 

close  at  hand  in  that  unfinished  song.  His  mopd  again 
became  one  of  vast  pity  for  her ;  and  issuing  from  the 
church  with  this  feeling,  there,  near  the  very  entrance, 
he  had  come  upon  a  rustic  picture  of  husband,  wife, 
and  child,  with  a  sharpness  of  transition  that  had 
seemed  the  return  of  his  spirit  to  its  own  world  of  flesh 
and  blood.  There  to  him  was  the  poetry  and  the  re 
ligion  of  life — the  linked  hands  of  lovers;  the  twining 
arms  of  childhood  ;  health  and  joyousness  ;  and  a  quiet 
walk  over  familiar  fields  in  the  evening  air  from  peace 
ful  church  to  peaceful  home.  And  so,  thinking  of  this 
as  he  walked  on  alone  and  thinking  also  of  her,  the 
two  thoughts  blended,  and  her  image  stood  always  be 
fore  him  in  the  path-way  of  his  ideal  future. 

The  history  of  the  next  several  days  may  soon  be 
told.  He  wrote  to  his  friends,  stating  that  there  was 
no  game  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  he  had  given 
up  the  idea  of  joining  them  and  would  return  home. 
He  took  the  letter  to  the  station,  and  waited  for  the 
train  to  pass  southward,  watching  it  rush  away  with  a 
subtle  pleasure  at  being  left  on  the  platform,  as  though 
the  bridges  were  now  burned  behind  him.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  farm-house,  where  Ezra-  met  him  with 
that  look  of  stupid  alarm  which  was  natural  to  him 
whenever  his  few  thoughts  were  agitated  by  a  new  sit 
uation  of  affairs. 

Word  had  come  from  the  convent  that  he  was  wanted 
there  to  move  a  fence  and  make  changes  in  the  garden, 
and,  proud  of  the  charge,  he  wished  to  go  ;  but  certain 
autumnal  work  in  his  own  orchard  and  garden  claimed 
his  time,  and  hence  the  trouble.  But  Gordon,  who 
henceforth  had  no  reason  for  tarrying  with  the  old 
couple,  threw  himself  eagerly  upon  this  opportunity  to 


228  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

do  so,  and  offered  his  aid  in  despatching  the  tasks. 
So  that  thus  a  few  days  passed,  during  which  he  un 
consciously  made  his  way  as  far  as  any  one  had  ever 
done  into  the  tortuous  nature  of  the  old  man,  who  be 
gan  to  regard  him  with  blind  trustfulness. 

But  they  were  restless,  serious  days.  One  after  an 
other  passed,  and  he  heard  nothing  of  Sister  Dolorosa. 
He  asked  himself  whether  she  were  ill,  whether  her 
visits  to  old  Martha  had  been  made  to  cease  ;  and  he 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  bearing  away  into  his  life 
the  haunting  pain  of  such  uncertainty.  But  some  inner 
change  constrained  him  no  longer  to  call  her  name.  As 
he  sat  with  the  old  couple  at  night  the  housewife  re 
newed  her  talks  with  him,  speaking  sometimes  of  the 
convent  and  of  Sister  Dolorosa,  the  cessation  of  whose 
visits  plainly  gave  her  secret  concern  ;  but  he  listened 
in  silence,  preferring  the  privacy  of  his  own  thoughts. 
Sometimes,  under  feint  of  hunting,  he  would  take  his 
gun  in  the  afternoon  and  stroll  out  over  the  country ; 
but  always  the  presence  of  the  convent  made  itself  felt 
over  the  landscape,  dominating  it,  solitary  and  impreg 
nable,  like  a  fortress.  It  began  to  draw  his  eyes  with 
a  species  of  fascination.  He  chafed  against  its  asser 
tion  of 'barriers,  and  could  have  wished  that  his  own 
will  might  be  brought  into  conflict  with  it.  It  appeared 
to  watch  him;  to  have  an  eye  at  every  window;  to 
see  in  him  a  lurking  danger.  At  other  times,  borne 
to  him  across  the  darkening  fields  would  come  the 
sweet  vesper  bell,  and  in  imagination  he  would  see 
her  entering  the  church  amid  the  long  procession 
of  novices  and  nuns,  her  hands  folded  across  her 
breast,  her  face  full  of  the  soft  glories  of  the  lights 
that  streamed  in  through  the  pictured  windows.  Over 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  22<) 

the  fancied  details  of  her  life  more  and  more  fondly  he 
lingered. 

And  thus,  although  at  first  he  had  been  interested  in 
her  wholly  upon  general  grounds,  believing  her  secret 
ly  unhappy,  thus  by  thinking  always  of  her,  and  watch 
ing  for  her,  and  walking  often  beside  her  in  his  dreams, 
with  the  folly  of  the  young,  with  the  romantic  ardor  of 
his  race,  and  as  part  of  the  never-ending  blind  tragedy 
of  the  world,  he  came  at  last  to  feel  for  her,  among 
women,  that  passionate  pain  of  yearning  to  know  which 
is  to  know  the  sadness  of  love. 

Sleepless  one  night,  he  left  the  house  after  the  old 
couple  were  asleep.  The  moon  was  shining,  and  un 
consciously  following  the  bent  of  his  thoughts,  he  took 
the  foot-path  that  led  across  the  fields.  He  passed  the 
spot  where  he  had  first  met  her,  and  absorbed  in  recol 
lection  of  the  scene,  he  walked  on  until  before  him  the 
convent  towered  high  in  light  and  shadow.  He  had 
reached  the  entrance  to  the  long  avenue  of  elms.  He 
traversed  it,  turned  aside  into  the  garden,  and,  follow 
ing  with  many  pauses  around  its  borders,  lived  over 
again  the  day  when  she  had  led  him  through  it.  The 
mere  sense  of  his  greater  physical  nearness  to  her  in- 
thralled  him.  All  her  words  came  back  :  "  These  are 
daffodils.  They  bloomed  in  March,  long  ago.  .  .  .  And 
here  are  violets,  which  come  in  April."  After  awhile, 
leaving  the  garden,  he  walked  across  the  lawn  to  the 
church  and  sat  upon  the  steps,  trying  to  look  calmly  at 
this  whole  episode  in  his  life,  and  to  summon  resolu 
tion  to  bring  it  to  an  end.  He  dwelt  particularly  upon 
the  hopelessness  of  his  passion  ;  he  made  himself  be 
lieve  that  if  he  could  but  learn  that  she  were  not  ill  and 
suffering — if  he  could  but  see  her  once  more,  and  be 


230  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

very  sure — he  would  go  away,  as  every  dictate  of  rea 
son  urged. 

Across  the  lawn  stood  the  convent  building.  There 
caught  his  eye  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  light  through  a 
half-opened  window,  and  while  he  looked  he  saw  two 
of  the  nuns  moving  about  within.  Was  some  one  dying? 
Was  this  light  the  taper  of  the  dead  ?  He  tried  to 
throw  off  a  sudden  weight  of  gloomy  apprehension,  and 
resolutely  got  up  and  walked  away;  but  his  purpose 
was  formed  not  to  leave  until  he  had  intelligence  of  her. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  days  later,  happening  to 
come  to  an  elevated  point  of  the  landscape,  he  saw  her 
figure  moving  across  the  fields  in  the  distance  below 
him.  Between  the  convent  and  the  farm-house,  in  one 
of  the  fields,  there  is  a  circular,  basin-like  depression  ; 
and  it  was  here,  hidden  from  distant  observation,  with 
only  the  azure  of  the  heavens  above  them,  that  their 
meeting  took  place. 

On  the  day  when  she  had  been  his  guide  he  had  told 
her  that  he  was  going  away  on  the  morrow,  and  as  she 
walked  along  now  it  might  have  been  seen  that  she 
thought  herself  safe  from  intrusion.  Her  eyes  were 
bent  on  the  dust  of  the  path-way.  One  hand  was  pass 
ing  bead  by  bead  upward  along  her  rosary.  Her  veil 
was  pushed  back,  so  that  between  its  black  border  and 
the  glistening  whiteness  of  her  forehead  there  ran,  like 
a  rippling  band  of  gold,  the  exposed  edges  of  her  shin 
ing  hair.  In  the  other  hand  she  bore  a  large  cluster 
of  chrysanthemums,  whose  snow-white  petals  and  green 
leaves  formed  a  strong  contrast  with  the  crimson  sym 
bol  that  they  partly  framed  against  her  sable  bosom. 

He  had  come  up  close  before  the  noise  of  his  feet 
in  the  stubble  drew  her  attention.  Then  she  turned 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  231 

and  saw  him.  But  certain  instincts  of  self-preservation 
act  in  women  with  lightning  quickness.  She  did  not 
lecognize  him,  or  give  him  time  to  recognize  her.  She 
merely  turned  again  and  walked  onward  at  the  same 
pace.  But  the  chrysanthemums  were  trembling  with 
the  beating  of  her  heart,  and  her  eyes  had  in  them  that 
listening  look  with  which  one  awaits  the  oncoming  of 
danger  from  behind. 

But  he  had  stopped.  His  nature  was  simple  and 
trustful,  and  he  had  expected  to  renew  his  acquaint 
anceship  at  the  point  where  it  had  ceased.  When, 
therefore,  she  thus  reminded  him,  as  indeed  she  must, 
that  there  was  no  acquaintanceship  between  them,  and 
that  she  regarded  herself  as  much  alone  as  though  he 
were  nowhere  in  sight,  his  feelings  were  arrested  as  if 
frozen  by  her  coldness.  Still,  it  was  for  this  chance 
that  he  had  waited  all  these  days.  Another  would  not 
come;  and  whatever  he  wished  to  say  to  her  must  be 
said  now.  A  sensitiveness  wholly  novel  to  his  nature 
held  him  back,  but  a  moment  more  and  he  was  walk 
ing  beside  her. 

"  I  hope  I  do  not  intrude  so  very  far,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  ot  apology,  but  also  of  wounded  self-respect. 

It  was  a  difficult  choice  thus  left  to  her.  She  could 
not  say  "  Yes  "  without  seeming  unpardonably  rude ; 
she  could  not  say  "  No  "  without  seeming  to  invite  his 
presence.  She  walked  on  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
pausing,  turned  towards  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  that  you  wished  to  ask  me  in  re 
gard  to  the  convent  ?"  This  she  said  in  the  sweetest 
tone  of  apologetic  courtesy,  as  though  in  having  thought 
only  of  herself  at  first  she  had  neglected  some  larger 
duty. 


232  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

If  he  had  feared  that  he  would  see  traces  of  physical 
suffering  on  her  face,  he  was  mistaken.  She  had  for 
gotten  to  draw  her  veil  close,  and  the  sunlight  fell  upon 
its  loveliness.  Never  had  she  been  to  him  half  so  beau 
tiful.  Whatever  the  expression  her  eyes  had  worn  be 
fore  he  had  come  up,  in  them  now  rested  only  inscruta 
ble  calmness. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  have  wished  very  much  to 
know,"  he  answered,  slowly,  his  eyes  resting  on  hers. 
"I  was  at  the  church  of  the  convent  last  Sunday  and 
heard  you  sing.  They  said  you  were  not  well.  I  have 
hoped  every  day  to  hear  that  you  were  better.  J  have 
not  cared  to  go  away  until  I  knew  this." 

Scarcely  had  he  begun  when  a  flush  dyed  her  face, 
her  eyes  fell,  and  she  stood  betrayed  by  the  self-con 
sciousness  of  what  her  own  thoughts  had  that  day  been. 
One  hand  absently  tore  to  pieces  the  blooms  of  the 
chrysanthemums,  so  that  the  petals  fell  down  over  her 
dark  habit  like  snowflakes.  But  when  he  finished,  she 
lifted  her  eyes  again. 

"  I  am  well  now,  thank  you,"  she  said  ;  and  the  first 
smile  that  he  had  ever  seen  came  forth  from  her  soul 
to  her  face.  But  what  a  smile !  It  wrung  his  heart 
more  than  the  sight  of  her  tears  could  have  done. 

"  Then  I  shall  hope  to  hear  you  sing  again  to-morrow," 
he  said,  quickly,  for  she  seemed  on  the  point  of  moving 
away. 

"  I  shall  not  sing  to-morrow,"  she  replied  a  little 
hurriedly,  with  averted  face,  and  again  she  started  on. 
But  he  walked  beside  her. 

"  In  that  case  I  have  still  to  thank  you  for  the  pleas 
ure  I  have  had.  I  imagine  that  one  would  never  do 
wrong  if  he  could  hear  you  sing  whenever  he  is  tempted," 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  233 

he  said,  looking  sidewise  at  her  with  a  quiet,  tentative 
smile. 

"  It  is  not  my  voice,"  she  replied  more  hurriedly. 
'•  It  is  the  music  of  the  service.  Do  not  thank  me. 
Thank  God." 

"  I  have  heard  the  service  before.  It  was  your  voice 
that  touched  me." 

She  drew  her  veil  about  her  face  and  walked  on  in 
silence. 

"  But  I  have  no  wish  to  say  anything  against  your 
religion,"  he  continued,  his  voice  deepening  and  trem 
bling.  "  If  it  has  such  power  over  the  natures  of  women, 
if  it  lifts  them  to  such  ideals  of  duty,  if  it  develops  in 
them  such  characters,  that  merely  to  look  into  their 
faces,  to  be  near  them,  to  hear  their  voices,  is  to  make 
a  man  think  of  a  better  world,  I  do  not  know  why  I 
should  say  anything  against  it."  .. 

How  often,  without  meaning  it,  our  words  are  like  a 
flight  of  arrows  into  another's  heart.  What  he  said  but 
reminded  her  of  her  unfaithfulness.  And  therefore 
while  she  revolved  how  with  perfect  gentleness  she 
might  ask  him  to  allow  her  to  continue  her  way  alone, 
she  did  what  she  could  :  she  spoke  reverently,  though 
all  but  in  audibly,  in  behalf  of  her  order. 

"  Our  vows  are  perfect  and  divine.  If  they  ever 
seem  less,  it  is  the  fault  of  those  of  us  who  dishonor 
them." 

The  acute  self-reproach  in  her  tone  at  once  changed 
his  mood. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  also  asked  myself  this 
question  :  Is  it  the  creed  that  makes  the  natures  of 
you  women  so  beautiful,  or  it  is  the  nature  of  woman 
that  gives  the  beauty  to  the  creed  ?  It  is  not  so  with 


234  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

any  other  idea  that  women  espouse?  with  any  other 
cause  that  they  undertake  ?  Is  it  not  so  with  anything 
that  they  spend  their  hearts  upon,  toil  for,  and  sacrifice 
themselves  for  ?  Do  I  see  any  beauty  in  your  vows  ex 
cept  such  as  your  life  gives  to  them  ?  I  can  believe  it. 
I  can  believe  that  if  you  had  never  taken  those  vows 
your  life  would  still  be  beautiful.  I  can  believe  that 
you  could  change  them  for  others  and  find  yourself 
more  nearly  the  woman  that  you  strive  to  be — that  you 
were  meant  to  be!"  He  spoke  in  the  subdued  voice 
with  which  one  takes  leave  of  some  hope  that  brightens 
while  it  disappears. 

"  I  must  ask  you,"  she  said,  pausing — "  I  must  ask 
you  to  allow  me  to  continue  my  walk  alone ;''  and  her 
voice  quivered. 

He  paused,  too,  and  stood  looking  into  her  eyes  in 
silence  with  the  thought  that  he  should  never  see  her 
again.  The  color  had  died  out  of  his  face. 

"  I  can  never  forgive  your  vows,"  he  said,  speaking 
very  slowly  and  making  an  effort  to  appear  unmoved. 
"  I  can  never  forgive  your  vows  that  they  make  it  a  sin 
for  me  to  speak  to  you.  I  can  never  forgive  them  that 
they  put  between  us  a  gulf  that  I  cannot  pass.  Re 
member,  I  owe  you  a  great  deal.  I  owe  you  higher 
ideas  of  a  woman's  nature  and  clearer  resolutions  re 
garding  my  own  life.  Your  vows  perhaps  make  it  even 
a  sin  that  I  should  tell  you  this.  But  by  what  right? 
By  what  right  am  I  forbidden  to  say  that  I  shall  re 
member  you  always,  and  that  I  shall  carry  away  with 
me  into  my  life — " 

"  Will  you  force  me  to  turn  back  ?''  she  asked  in 
greater  agitation ;  and  though  he  could  not  see  her  face, 
he  saw  her  tears  fall  upon  her  hands. 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  235 

"  No,"  he  answered  sadly;  "  I  shall  not  force  you  to 
turn  back.  I  know  that  I  have  intruded.  But  it  seemed 
that  I  could  not  go  away  without  seeing  you  again,  to 
be  quite  sure  that  you  were  well.  And  when  I  saw 
you,  it  seemed  impossible  not  to  speak  of  other  things. 
Of  course  this  must  seem  strange  to  you — stranger,  per 
haps,  than  I  may  imagine,  since  we  look  at  human  re 
lationships  so  differently.  My  life  in  this  world  can  be 
of  no  interest  to  you.  You  cannot,  therefore,  under 
stand  why  yours  should  have  any  interest  for  me.  Still, 
I  hope  you  can  forgive  me,"  he  added  abruptly,  turning 
his  face  away  as  it  flushed  and  his  voice  faltered. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  quickly,  although  they  were  dim. 
"  Do  not  ask  me  to  forgive  anything.  There  is  nothing 
to  be  forgiven.  It  is  I  who  must  ask — only  leave  me !" 

"  Will  you  say  good-bye  to  me  ?"  And  he  held  out 
his  hand. 

She  drew  back,  but,  overborne  by  emotion,  he  stepped 
forward,  gently  took  her  hand  from  the  rosary,  and  held 
it  in  both  his  own. 

"  Good-bye  !  But,  despite  the  cruel  barriers  that  they 
have  raised  between  us,  I  shall  always — " 

She  foresaw  what  was  coming.  His  manner  told  her 
that.  She  had  not  withdrawn  her  hand.  But  at  this 
point  she  dropped  the  flowers  that  were  in  her  other 
hand,  laid  it  on  her  breast  so  that  the  longest  finger 
pointed  towards  the  symbol  of  the  transfixed  heart,  and 
looked  quickly  at  him  with  indescribable  warning  and 
distress.  Then  he- released  her,  and  she  turned  back 
towards  the  convent. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  with  a  frightened  face,  when  she 
reached  it,  "  I  did  not  go  to  old  Martha's.  Some  one 
was  hunting  in  the  fields,  and  I  came  back.  Do  not 


236  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

send  me  again,  Mother,  unless  one  of  the  Sisters  goes 
with  me."  And  with  this  half-truth  on  her  lips  and  full 
remorse  for  it  in  her  heart,  she  passed  into  that  deepen 
ing  imperfection  of  nature  which  for  the  most  of  us 
makes  up  the  inner  world  of  reality. 

Gordon  wrote  to  her  that  night.  He  had  not  foreseen 
his  confession.  It  had  been  drawn  from  him  under  the 
influences  of  the  moment ;  but  since  it  was  made,  a 
sense  of  honor  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  stop 
there,  even  had  feeling  carried  him  no  further.  More 
over,  some  hope  had  been  born  in  him  at  the  moment 
of  separation,  since  she  had  not  rebuked  him,  but  only 
reminded  him  of  her  vows. 

His  letter  was  full  of  the  confidence  and  enthusiasm 
of  youth,  and  its  contents  may  be  understood  by  their 
likeness  to  others.  He  unfolded  the  plan  of  his  life — 
the  life  which  he  was  asking  her  to  share.  He  dwelt 
upon  its  possibilities,  he  pointed  out  the  field  of  its 
aspirations.  But  he  kept  his  letter  for  some  days,  un 
able  to  conceive  a  way  by  which  it  might  be  sent  to  its 
destination.  At  length  the  chance  came  in  the  simplest 
of  disguises. 

Ezra  was  starting  one  morning  to  the  convent.  As 
he  was  leaving  the  room,  old  Martha  called  to  him. 
She  sat  by  the  hearthstone,  with  her  head  tied  up  in  red 
flannel,  and  her  large,  watery  face  flushed  with  pain, 
and  pointed  towards  a  basket  of  apples  on  the  window 
sill. 

"  Take   them   to    Sister    Dolorosa,  Ezra,"  she    said 
"  Mind  that  you  see  tier,  and  give  them  to  her  with  your 
own  hands.     And  ask  her  why  she  hasn't  been  to  see 
me,  and  when  she  is  coming."     On  this  point  her  mind 
seemed  more  and  more  troubled.     "  But  what's  the  use 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  237 

of  asking  you  to  find  out  for  me  ?"  she  added,  flashing 
out  at  him  with  heroic  anger. 

The  old  man  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dry 
and  gnarled,  his  small  eyes  kindling  into  a  dull  rage  at 
a  taunt  made  in  the  presence  of  a  guest  whose  good 
opinion  he  desired.  But  he  took  the  apples  in  silence 
and  left  the  room. 

As  Gordon  followed  him  beyond  the  garden,  noting 
how  his  mind  was  absorbed  in  petty  anger,  a  simple 
resolution  came  to  him. 

"  Ezra,"  he  said,  handing  him  the  letter,  "  when  you 
give  the  Sister  the  apples,  deliver  this.  And  we  do  not 
talk  about  business,  you  know,  Ezra." 

The  old  man  took  the  letter  and  put  it  furtively  into 
his  pocket,  with  a  backward  shake  of  his  head  towards 
the  house. 

"  Whatever  risks  I  may  have  to  run  from  other 
quarters,  he  will  never  tell  her"  Gordon  said  to  him 
self. 

When  Ezra  returned  in  the  evening  he  was  absorbed, 
and  Gordon  noted  with  relief  that  he  was  also  un 
suspicious.  He  walked  some  distance  to  meet  the  old 
man  the  next  two  days,  and  his  suspense  became  almost 
unendurable,  but  he  asked  no  questions.  The  third 
day  Ezra  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter,  which  he  de 
livered,  merely  saying : 

"  The  Sister  told  me  to  give  you  this." 

Gordoa  soon  turned  aside  across  the  fields,  and  hav 
ing  reached  a  point,  screened  from  observation  he 
opened  the  letter  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  I  have  received  your  letter.  I  have  read  it.  But 
how  could  I  listen  to  your  proposal  without  becoming 


238  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

false  to  my  vows  ?  And  if  you  knew  that  I  had  proved 
false  to.  what  I  held  most  dear  and  binding,  how  could 
you  ever  believe  that  I  would  be  true  to  anything  else  ? 
Ah,  no!  Should  you  unite  yourself  to  one  who  for  your 
sake  had  been  faithless  to  the  ideal  of  womanhood  which 
she  regarded  as  supreme,  you  would  soon  withdraw 
from  her  the  very  love  that  she  had  sacrificed  even  her 
hopes  of  Heaven  to  enjoy. 

"  But  it  seems  possible  that  in  writing  to  me  you  be 
lieve  my  vows  no  longer  precious  to  my  heart  and 
sacred  to  my  conscience.  You  are  wrong.  They  are 
more  dear  to  me  at  this  moment  than  ever  before,  be 
cause  at  this  moment,  as  never  before,  they  give  me  a 
mournful  admonition  of  my  failure  to  exhibit  to  the 
world  in  my  own  life  the  beauty  of  their  ineffable  holi 
ness.  For  had  there  not  been  something  within  me  to 
lead  you  on — had  I  shown  to  you  the  sinless  nature 
which  it  is  their  office  to  create — you  would  never  have 
felt  towards  me  as  you  do.  You  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  loving  me  than  of  loving  an  angel  of  God. 

"  The  least  reparation  I  can  make  for  my  offense  is  to 
tell  you  that  in  offering  me  your  love  you  offer  me  the 
cup  of  sacred  humiliation,  and  that  I  thank  you  for  re 
minding  me  of  my  duty,  while  I  drain  it  to  the  dregs. 

"  After  long  deliberation  I  have  written  to  tell  you 
this  ;  and  if  it  be  allowed  me  to  make  one  request,  I 
would  entreat  that  you  will  never  lay  this  sin  of  mine  to 
the  charge  of  my  religion  and  my  order. 

"  We  shall  never  meet  again.  Although  I  may  not 
listen  to  your  proposal,  it  is  allowed  me  to  love  you  as 
one  of  the  works  of  God.  And  since  there  are  exalted 
women  in  the  world  who  do  not  consecrate  themselves 
to  the  Church,  I  shall  pray  that  you  may  find  one  of 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  239 

these  to  walk  by  your  side  through  life.  I  shall  pray 
that  she  may  be  worthy  of  you;  and  perhaps  you  will 
teach  her  sometimes  to  pray  for  one  who  will  always 
need  her  prayers. 

"  I  only  know  that  God  orders  our  lives  according  to 
his  goodness.  My  feet  he  set  in  one  path  of  duty,  yours 
in  another,  and  he  had  separated  us  forever  long  before 
he  allowed  us  to  meet.  If,  therefore,  having  thus 
separated  us,  he  yet  brought  us  together  only  that  we 
should  thus  know  each  other  and  then  be  parted,  I  can 
not  believe  that  there  was  not  in  it  some  needed  lesson 
for  us  both.  At  least,  if  he  will  deign  to  hear  the  cease 
less,  fervent  petition  of  one  so  erring,  he  will  not  leave 
you  unhappy  on  account  of  that  love  for  me,  which  in 
this  world  it  will  never  be  allowed  me  to  return.  Fare 
well:" 

The  first  part  of  this  letter  awakened  in  Gordon  keen 
remorse  and  a  faltering  of  purpose,  but  the  latter  filled 
him  with  a  joy  that  excluded  every  other  feeling. 

"  She  loves  me !"  he  exclaimed ;  and,  as  though 
registering  a  vow,  he  added  aloud,  "And  nothing — 
God  help  me ! — nothing  shall  keep  us  apart." 

Walking  to  a  point  of  the  landscape  that  commanded 
a  view  of  the  convent,  he  remained  there  while  the  twi 
light  fell,  revolving  how  he  was  to  surmount  the  re 
maining  barriers  between  them,  for  these  now  seemed 
hardly  more  than  cobwebs  to  be  brushed  aside  by  his 
hand ;  and  often,  meanwhile,  he  looked  towards  the 
convent,  as  one  might  look  longingly  towards  some  for 
bidden  shrine,  which  the  coming  night  would  enable 
him  to  approach. 


240  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 


VI. 

A  night  for  love  it  was.  The  great  sun  at  setting 
had  looked  with  steadfast  eye  at  the  convent  standing 
lonely  on  its  wide  landscape,  and  had  then  thrown  his 
final  glance  across  the  world  towards  the  east ;  and  the 
moon  had  quickly  risen  and  hung  about  it  the  long  sil 
very  twilight  of  her  heavenly  watchfulness.  The  sum 
mer,  too,  which  had  been  moving  southward,  now  came 
slowly  back,  borne  on  warm  airs  that  fanned  the  con 
vent  walls  and  sighed  to  its  chaste  lattices  with  the  poe 
try  of  dead  flowers  and  vanished  songsters.  But  sighed 
in  vain.  With  many  a  prayer,  with  many  a  cross  on 
pure  brow  and  shoulder  and  breast,  with  many  a  pious 
kiss  of  crucifix,  the  convent  slept.  Only  some  little 
novice,  lying  like  a  flushed  figure  of  Sleep  on  a  couch 
of  snow,  may  have  stirred  to  draw  one  sigh,  as  those 
zephyrs,  toying  with  her  warm  hair,  broke  some  earth 
ly  dream  of  too  much  tenderness.  Or  they  may  merely 
have  cooled  the  feverish  feet  of  a  withered  nun,  who 
clasped  her  dry  hands  in  ecstasy,  as  on  her  cavernous 
eyes  there  dawned  a  vision  of  the  glories  and  rewards 
of  Paradise.  But  no ,  not  all  slept.  At  an  open  win 
dow  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  convent  stood  the  sleep 
less  one,  looking  out  into  the  largeness  of  the  night 
like  one  who  is  lost  in  the  largeness  of  her  sorrow. 

Across  the  lawn,  a  little  distance  off,  stood  the  church 
of  the  convent.  The  moonlight  rested  on  it  like  a 
smile  of  peace,  the  elms  blessed  it  with  tireless  arms, 
and  from  the  zenith  of  the  sky  down  to  the  horizon 
there  rested  on  outstretched  wings,  rank  above  rank 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  2,J.r 

and  pinion  brushing  pinion,  a  host  of  white,  angelic 
cloud-shapes,  as  though  guarding  the  sacred  portal. 

But  she  looked  at  it  with  timid  yearning.  Greater 
and  greater  had  become  the  need  to  pour  into  some 
ear  a  confession  and  a  prayer  for  pardon.  Her  peace 
was  gone.  She  had  been  concealing  her  heart  from 
the  Mother  Superior.  She  had  sinned  against  her 
vows.  She  had  impiously  offended  the  Divine  Mother. 
And  to-day,  after  answering  his  letter  in  order  that  she 
might  defend  her  religion,  she  had  acknowledged  to 
her  heart  that  she  loved  him.  But  they  would  never 
meet  again.  To-morrow  she  would  make  a  full  confes 
sion  of  what  had  taken  place.  Beyond  that  miserable 
ordeal  she  dared  not  gaze  into  her  own  future. 

Lost  in  the  fears  and  sorrows  of  such  thoughts,  long 
she  stood  looking  out  into  the  night,  stricken  with  a 
sense  of  alienation  from  human  sympathy.  She  felt 
that  she  stood  henceforth  estranged  from  the  entire 
convent— Mother  Sjaperior,  novice,  and  nun — as  an  ob 
ject  of  reproach,  and  of  suffering  into  which  no  one  of 
them  could  enter. 

Sorer  yet  grew  her  need,  and  a  little  way  across  the 
lawn  stood  the  church,  peaceful  in  the  moonlight.  Ah, 
the  divine  pity !  If  only  she  might  steal  first  alone  to  the 
shrine  of  her  whom  most  she  had  offended,  and  to  an  ear 
gracious  to  sorrow  make  confession  of  her  frailty.  At 
length,  overcome  with  this  desire  and  gliding  noiseless 
ly  out  of  the  room,  she  passed  down  the  moonlit  hall, 
on  each  side  of  which  the  nuns  were  sleeping.  She 
descended  the  stairway,  took  from  the  wall  the  key  of 
the  church,  and  then  softly  opening  the  door,  stepped 
out  into  the  night.  For  a  moment  she  paused,  icy  and 
faint  with  physical  fear;  then,  passing  like  a  swift 
16 


242  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

shadow  across  the  silvered  lawn,  she  went  round  to  the 
side  entrance  of  the  church,  unlocked  the  door,  and, 
entering  quickly,  locked  herself  inside.  There  she 
stood  for  some  time  with  hands  pressed  tightly  to  her 
Fluttering  heart,  until  bodily  agitation  died  away  be 
fore  the  recollection  of  her  mission  ;  and  there  came 
upon  her  that  calmness  with  which  the  soul  enacts 
great  tragedies.  Then  slowly,  very  slowly,  hidden  now, 
and  now  visible  where  the  moonlight  entered  the  long, 
gothic  windows,  she  passed  across  the  chancel  towards 
the  shrine  of  one  whom  ancestral  faith  had  taught  her 
to  believe  divine ;  and  before  the  image  of  a  Jewish 
woman — who  herself  in  full  humanity  loved  and  mar 
ried  a  carpenter  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago,  living 
beside  him  as  blameless  wife  and  becoming  blameless 
mother  to  his  children — this  poor  child,  whose  nature 
was  unstained  as  snow  on  the  mountain-peaks,  poured 
out  her  prayer  to  be  forgiven  the  sin  of  her  love. 

To  the  woman  of  the  world,  the  approaches  of  whose 
nature  are  defended  by  the  intricacies  of  willfulness 
and  the  barriers  of  deliberate  reserve  ;  to  the  woman 
of  the  world,  who  curbs  and  conceals  that  feeling  to 
which  she  intends  to  yield  herself  in  the  end,  it  may 
seem  incredible  that  there  should  have  rooted  itself  so 
easily  in  the  breast  of  one  of  her  sex  this  flower  of  a 
fatal  passion.  But  it  should  be  remembered  how  unbe- 
friended  that  bosom  had  been  by  any  outpost  of  femi 
nine  self  -  consciousness  ;  how  exposed  it  was  through 
very  belief  in  its  unearthly  consecration  ;  how  like  some 
unwatched  vase  that  had  long  been  collecting  the  sweet 
dews  and  rains  of  heaven,  it  had  been  silently  filling 
with  those  unbidden  intimations  that  are  shed  .from 
above  as  the  best  gifts  of  womanhood.  Moreover,  her 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  243 

life  was  unspeakably  isolate.  In  the  monotony  of  its 
routine  a  trifling  event  became  an  epoch ;  a  fresh  im 
pression  stirred  within  the  mind  material  for  a  chapter 
of  history.  Lifted  far  above  commonplace  psychology  of 
the  passions,  however,  was  the  planting  and  the  growth 
of  an  emotion  in  a  heart  like  hers. 

Her  prayer  began.  It  began  with  the  scene  of  her 
first  meeting  with  him  in  the  fields,  for  from  that  mo 
ment  she  fixed  the  origin  of  her  unfaithfulness.  Of 
the  entire  hidden  life  of  poetic  reverie  and  unsatisfied 
desires  which  she  had  been  living  before,  her  innocent 
soul  took  no  account.  Therefore,  beginning  with  that 
afternoon,  she  passed  in  review  the  history  of  her 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  moon  outside,  flooding  the 
heavens  with  its  beams,  was  not  so  intense  a  lamp  as 
memory,  now  turned  upon  the  recesses  of  her  mind. 
Nothing  escaped  detection.  His  words,  the  scenes  with 
him  in  the  garden,  in  the  field — his  voice,  looks,  gest 
ures — his  anxiety  and  sympathy — his  passionate  letter — 
all  were  now  vividly  recalled,  that  they  might  be  forgot 
ten;  and  their  influence  confessed,  that  it  might  forever 
be  renounced.  Her  conscience  stood  beside  her  love  as 
though  it  were  some  great  fast-growing  deadly  plant 
in  her  heart,  with  deep -twisted  roots  and  strangling 
tendrils,  each  of  which  to  the  smallest  fibre  must  be 
uptorn  so  that  not  a  germ  should  be  left. 

But  who  can  describe  the  prayer  of  such  a  soul !  It 
is  easy  to  ask  to  be  rid  of  ignoble  passions.  They 
come  upon  us  as  momentary  temptations  and  are  ab- 
hojrent  to  our  better  selves ;  but  of  all  tragedies  enact 
ed  within  the  theatre  of  the  human  mind  what  one  is  so 
pitiable  as  that  in  which  a  pure  being  prays  to  be  for 
given  the  one  feelini  of  nature  that  is  the  revelation  of 


244  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

beauty,  the  secret  of  perfection,  the  solace  of  the  world, 
and  the  condition  of  immortality? 

The  passing  of  such  a  tragedy  scars  the  nature  of  the 
penitent  like  the  passing  of  an  age  across  a  mountain 
rock.  If  there  had  lingered  thus  long  on  Sister  Dolo- 
rosa's  nature  any  upland  of  childhood  snows,  these 
vanished  in  that  hour ;  if  any  vernal  belt  of  maidenhood, 
it  felt  the  hot  breath  of  that  experience  of  the  world 
and  of  the  human  destiny  which  quickly  ages  whatever 
it  does  not  destroy.  So  that  while  she  prayed  there 
seemed  to  rise  from  within  her  and  take  flight  forever 
that  spotless  image  of  herself  as  she  once  had  been, 
and  in  its  place  to  stand  the  form  of  a  woman,  elder, 
altered,  and  set  apart  by  sorrow. 

At  length  her  prayer  ended  and  she  rose.  It  had 
not  brought  her  the  peace  that  prayer  brings  to  women  ; 
for  the  confession  of  her  love  before  the  very  altar — 
the  mere  coming  into  audience  with  the  Eternal  to  re 
nounce  it — had  set  upon  it  the  seal  of  irrevocable  truth. 
It  is  when  the  victim  is  led  to  the  altar  of  sacrifice  that 
it  turns  its  piteous  eyes  upon  the  sacrificing  hand  and 
utters  its  poor  dumb  cry  for  life  ;  and  it  was  when  Sister 
Dolorosa  bared  the  breast  of  her  humanity  that  it  might 
be  stabbed  by  the  hand  of  her  religion,  that  she,  too, 
though  attempting  to  bless  the  stroke,  felt  the  last  pangs 
of  that  deep  thrust. 

With  such  a  wound  she  turned  from  the  altar,  walked 
with  bowed  head  once  more  across  the  church,  unlocked 
the  door,  stepped  forth  and  locked  it.  The  night  had 
grown  more  tender.  The  host  of  seraphic  cloud-forms 
had  fled  across  the  sky;  and  as  she  turned  her  eyes 
upward  to  the  heavens,  there  looked  down  upon  her 
from  their  serene,  untroubled  heights  only  the  stars, 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  245 

that  never  falter  or  digress  from  their  forewritten  courses. 
The  thought  came  to  her  that  never  henceforth  should 
she  look  up  to  them  without  being  reminded  of  how 
her  own  will  had  wandered  from  its  orbit.  The  moon 
rained  its  steady  beams  upon  the  symbol  of  the  sacred 
heart  on  her  bosom,  until  it  seemed  to  throb  again 
with  the  agony  of  the  crucifixion.  Never  again  should 
she  see  it  without  the  remembrance  that  her  sin  also 
had  pierced  it  afresh. 

With  what  loneliness  that  sin  had  surrounded  her ! 
As  she  had  issued  from  the  damp,  chill  atmosphere  of 
the  church,  the  warm  airs  of  the  south  quickened  within 
her  long-sleeping  memories ;  and  with  the  yearning  of 
stricken  childhood  she  thought  of  her  mother,  to  whom 
she  had  turned  of  yore  for  sympathy;  but  that  mother's 
bosom  was  now  a  mound  of  dust.  She  looked  across 
the  lawn  towards  the  convent  where  the  Mother  Supe 
rior  and  the  nuns  were  sleeping.  To-morrow  she  would 
stand  among  them  a  greater  alien  than  any  stranger. 
Xo ;  she  was  alone  ;  among  the  millions  of  human  be 
ings  on  the  earth  of  God  there  was  not  one  on  whose 
heart  she  could  have  rested  her  own.  Not  one  save 
him — him — whose  love  had  broken  down  all  barriers 
that  it  might  reach  and  infold  her.  And  him  she  had 
repelled.  A  joy,  new  and  indescribable,  leaped  within 
her  that  for  him  and  not  for  another  she  suffered  and 
was  bound  in  this  tragedy  of  her  fall. 

Slowly  she  took  her  way  along  the  side  of  the  church 
towards  the  front  entrance,  from  which  a  paved  walk 
led  to  the  convent  building.  She  reached  the  corner, 
she  turned,  and  then  she  paused  as  one  might  pause 
who  had  come  upon  the  beloved  dead,  returned  to  life. 

For  he  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  church,  leaning 


246  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

against  one  of  the  pillars,  his  face  lifted  upward  so  that 
the  moonlight  fell  upon  it.  She  had  no  time  to  turn 
back  before  he  saw  her.  With  a  low  cry  of  surprise 
and  joy  he  sprang  up  and  followed  along  the  side  of 
the  church;  for  she  had  begun  to  retrace  her  steps  to 
the  door,  to  lock  herself  inside.  When  he  came  up  be 
side  her,  she  paused.  Both  were  trembling ;  but  when 
he  saw  the  look  of  suffering  on  her  face,  acting  upon 
the  impulse  which  had  always  impelled  him  to  stand 
between  her  and  unhappiness,  he  now  took  both  of  her 
hands. 

"  Pauline  !" 

He  spoke  with  all  the  pleading  love,  all  the  depth  of 
nature,  that  was  in  him. 

She  had  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hands  ;  but  at  the 
sound  of  that  once-familiar  name,  she  suddenly  bowed 
her  head  as  the  wave  of  memories  and  emotions  passed 
over  her;  then  he  quickly  put  his  arms  around  her, 
drew  her  to  him,  and  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 


VII. 

For  hours  there  lasted  an  interview,  during  which  he, 
with  the  delirium  of  hope,  she  with  the  delirium  of  de 
spair,  drained  at  their  young  lips  that  cup  of  life  which 
is  full  of  the  first  confession  of  love. 

In  recollections  so  overwhelming  did  this  meeting 
leave  Gordon  on  the  next  morning,  that  he  was  un 
mindful  of  everything  beside ;  and  among  the  conse 
quences  of  absent-mindedness  was  the  wound  that  he 
gave  himself  by  the  careless  handling  of  his  gun. 

When  Ezra  had  set  out  for  the  convent  that  morning 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  247 

he  had  walked  with  him,  saying  that  he  would  go  to 
the  station  for  a  daily  paper,  but  chiefly  wishing  to  es 
cape  the  house  and  be  alone.  They  had  reached  in 
the  fields  a  rotting  fence,  on  each  side  of  which  grew 
briers  and  underwood.  He  had  expected  to  climb  this 
fence,  and  as  he  stood  beside  it  speaking  a  few  parting 
words  to  Ezra  he  absently  thrust  his  gun  between  two 
of  the  lower  rails,  not  noticing  that  the  lock  was 
sprung.  Caught  in  the  brush  on  the  other  side,  it  was 
discharged,  making  a  wound  in  his  left  leg  a  little  be 
low  the  thigh.  He  turned  to  a  deadly  paleness,  looked 
at  Ezra  with  that  stunned,  bewildered  expression  seen 
in  the  faces  of  those  who  receive  a  wound,  and  fell. 

By  main  strength  the  old  man  lifted  and  bore  him  to 
the  house  and  hurried  off  to  the  station,  near  which  the 
neighborhood  physician  and  surgeon  lived.  But  the 
latter  was  away  from  home ;  several  hours  passed  be 
fore  he  came  ;  the  means  taken  to  stop  the  hemorrhage 
had  been  ineffectual ;  the  loss  of  blood  had  been  very 
great ;  certain  foreign  matter  had  been  carried  into  the 
wound ;  the  professional  treatment  was  unskilful ;  and 
septic  fever  followed,  so  that  for  many  days  his  life 
hung  upon  a  little  chance.  But  convalescence  came 
at  last,  and  with  it  days  of  clear,  calm  thinking.  For 
he  had  not  allowed  news  of  his  accident  to  be  sent 
home  or  to  his  friends ;  and  except  the  old  couple,  the 
doctor,  and  the  nurse  whom  the  latter  had  secured,  he 
had  no  company  but  his  thoughts. 

No  tidings  had  come  to  him  of  Sister  Dolorosa  since 
his  accident ;  and  nothing  had  intervened  to  remove 
that  sad  image  of  her  which  had  haunted  him  through 
fever  and  phantasy  and  dream  since  the  night  of  their 
final  interview.  For  it  was  then  that  he  had  first  real- 


248  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

ized  in  how  pitiless  a  tragedy  her  life  had  become  en 
tangled,  and  how  conscience  may  fail  to  govern  a  wom 
an's  heart  in  denying  her  the  right  to  love,  but  may  still 
govern  her  actions  in  forbidding  her  to  marry.  To 
plead  with  her  had  been  to  wound  only  the  more  deep 
ly  a  nature  that  accepted  even  this  pleading  as  a  fur 
ther  proof  of  its  own  disloyalty,  and  was  forced  by  it 
into  a  state  of  more  poignant  humiliation.  What  won 
der,  therefore,  if  there  had  been  opened  in  his  mind 
from  that  hour  a  certain  wound  which  grew  deeper  and 
deeper,  until,  by  comparison,  his  real  wound  seemed 
painless  and  insignificant. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  true  that  during  this  interview  he 
had  not  been  able  to  accept  her  decision  as  irreversi 
ble.  The  spell  of  her  presence  over  him  was  too  com 
plete  ;  even  his  wish  to  rescue  her  from  a  lot,  hence 
forth  unhappier  still,  too  urgent;  so  that  in  parting  he 
had  clung  to  the  secret  hope  that  little  by  little  he 
might  change  her  conscience,  which  now  interposed 
the  only  obstacle  between  them. 

Even  the  next  day,  when  he  had  been  wounded  and 
life  was  rapidly  flowing  from  him,  and  earthly  ties 
seemed  soon  to  be  snapped,  he  had  thought  only  of 
this  tie,  new  and  sacred,  and  had  written  to  her.  Poor 
boy! — he  had  written,  as  with  his  heart's  blood,  his 
brief,  pathetic  appeal  that  she  would  come  and  be 
united  to  him  before  he  died.  In  all  ages  of  the  world 
there  have  been  persons,  simple  in  nature  and  simple 
in  their  faith  in  another  life,  who  have  forgotten  every 
thing  else  in  the  last  hour  but  the  supreme  wish  to 
grapple  to  them  those  they  love,  for  eternity,  and  at 
whatever  cost.  Such  simplicity  of  nature  and  faith  be 
longed  to  him ;  for  although  in  Kentucky  the  unrest 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  249 

of  the  century  touching  belief  in  the  supernatural,  and 
the  many  phases  by  which  this  expresses  itself,  are  not, 
unknown,  they  had  never  affected  him.  He  believed 
as  his  fathers  had  believed,  that  to  be  united  in  this 
world  in  any  relation  is  to  be  united  in  that  relation, 
mysteriously  changed  yet  mysteriously  the  same,  in  an 
other. 

But  this  letter  had  never  been  sent.  There  had  been 
no  one  to  take  it  at  the  time ;  and  when  Ezra  returned 
with  the  physician  he  had  fainted  away  from  loss  of 
blood. 

Then  had  followed  the  dressing  of  the  wound,  days 
of  fever  and  unconsciousness,  and  then  the  assurance 
that  he  would  get  well.  Thus,  nearly  a  month  had 
passed,  and  for  him  a  great  change  had  come  over  the 
face  of  nature  and  the  light  of  the  world.  With  that 
preternatural  calm  of  mind  which  only  an  invalid  or  a 
passionless  philosopher  ever  obtains,  he  now  looked 
back  upon  an  episode  which  thus  acquired  fictitious 
remoteness.  So  weak  that  he  could  scarcely  lift  his 
head  from  his  pillow,  there  left  his  heart  the  keen,  joy 
ous  sense  of  human  ties  and  pursuits.  He  lost  the  key 
to  the  motives  and  forces  of  his  own  character.  But  it 
is  often  the  natural  result  of  such  illness  that  while  the 
springs  of  feeling  seem  to  dry  up,  the  conscience  re 
mains  sensitive,  or  even  burns  more  brightly,  as  a  star 
through  a  rarer  atmosphere.  So  that,  lying  thus  in  the 
poor  farm-house  during  dreary  days,  with  his  life  half- 
gone  out  of  him  and  with  only  the  sad  image  of  her  al 
ways  before  his  eyes,  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  his 
cruel  folly  in  having  broken  in  upon  her  peace ;  for 
perfect  peace  of  some  sort  she  must  have  had  in  com 
parison  with  what  was  now  left  her. 


250  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

Beneath  his  pillow  he  kept  her  letter,  and  as  he  often 
read  it  over  he  asked  himself  how  he  could  ever  have 
hoped  to  change  the  conscience  which  had  inspired 
such  a  letter  as  that.  If  her  heart  belonged  to  him, 
did  not  her  soul  belong  to  her  religion  ;  and  if  one  or 
the  other  must  give  way,  could  it  be  doubtful  with  such 
a  nature  as  hers  which  would  come  out  victorious  ? 
Thus  he  said  to  himself  that  any  further  attempt  to  see 
her  could  but  result  in  greater  suffering  to  them  both, 
and  that  nothing  was  left  him  but  what  she  herself  had 
urged — to  go  away  and  resign  her  to  a  life,  from  which 
he  had  too  late  found  out  that  she  could  never  be  di 
vorced. 

As  soon  as  he  had  come  to  this  decision,  he  began 
to  think  of  her  as  belonging  only  to  his  past.  The  en 
tire  episode  became  a  thing  of  memory  and  irreparable 
incompleteness  ;  and  with  the  conviction  that  she  was 
lost  to  him  her  image  passed  into  that  serene,  reveren 
tial  sanctuary  of  our  common  nature,  where  all  the 
highest  that  we  have  grasped  at  and  missed,  and  all 
the  beauty  that  we  have  loved  and  lost,  take  the  forms 
of  statues  around  dim  walls  and  look  down  upon  us  in 
mournful,  never-changing  perfection. 

As  he  lay  one  morning  revolving  his  altered  purpose, 
Ezra  came  quietly  into  the  room  and  took  from  a  table 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed  a  waiter  on  which  were  a  jelly- 
glass  and  a  napkin. 

"  She  said  I'd  better  take  these  back  this  morning," 
he  observed,  looking  at  Gordon  for  his  approval,  and 
motioning  with  his  head  towards  that  quarter  of  the 
house  where  Martha  was  supposed  to  be. 

"  Wait  awhile,  will  you,  Ezra  ?"  he  replied,  looking  at 
the  old  man  with  the  dark,  quiet  eye  of  an  invalid.  "  I 


SISTER    DOLOKOSA.  251 

think  I  ought  to  write  a  few  lines  this  morning  to  thank 
them  for  their  kindness.  Come  back  in  an  hour,  will 
you?" 

The  things  had  been  sent  from  the  convent ;  for, 
from  the  time  that  news  had  reached  the  Mother  Supe 
rior  of  the  accident  of  the  young  stranger  who  had  vis 
ited  the  convent  some  days  before,  there  had  regularly 
come  to  him  delicate  attentions  which  could  not  have 
been  supplied  at  the  farm-house.  He  often  asked  him 
self  whether  they  were  not  inspired  by  her ;  and  he 
thought  that  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  write  his 
thanks,  he  would  put  into  the  expression  of  them  some 
thing  that  would  be  understood  by  her  alone — some 
thing  that  would  stand  for  gratitude  and  a  farewell. 

When  Ezra  left  the  room,  with  the  thought  of  now 
doing  this  another  thought  came  unexpectedly  to  him. 
By  the  side  of  the  bed  there  stood  a  small  table  on 
which  were  writing  materials  and  a  few  books  that  had 
been  taken  from  his  valise.  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  opening  one  of  them  took  from  it  a  letter  which 
bore  the  address,  "  Sister  Dolorosa."  It  contained 
those  appealing  lines  that  he  had  written  her  on  the 
day  of  his  accident ;  and  with  calm,  curious  sadness  he 
now  read  them  over  and  over,  as  though  they  had  never 
come  from  him.  From  the  mere  monotony  of  this  ex 
ercise  sleep  overtook  him,  and  he  had  scarcely  restored 
the  letter  to  the  envelope  and  laid  it  back  on  the  table 
before  his  eyelids  closed. 

While  he  still  lay  asleep,  Ezra  came  quietly  into  the 
room  again,  and  took  up  the  waiter  with  the  jelly-glass 
and  the  napkin.  Then  he  looked  around  for  the  letter 
that  he  was  to  take.  He  was  accustomed  to  carry  Gor 
don's  letters  to  the  station,  and  his  eye  now  rested  on 


252  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

the  table  where  they  were  always  to  be  found.  Seeing 
one  on  it,  he  walked  across,  took  it  up  and  read  the 
address,  "  Sister  Dolorosa/'  hesitated,  glanced  at  Gor 
don's  closed  eyes,  and  then,  with  an  intelligent  nod  to 
signify  that  he  could  understand  without  further  in 
struction,  he  left  the  room  and  set  out  briskly  for  the 
convent. 

Sister  Dolorosa  was  at  the  cistern  filling  a  bucket 
with  water  when  he  came  up  and,  handing  her  the  let 
ter,  passed  on  to  the  convent  kitchen.  She  looked  at 
it  with  indifference ;  then  she  opened  and  read  it ;  and 
then  in  an  instant  everything  whirled  before  her  eyes, 
and  in  her  ears  the  water  sounded  loud  as  it  dropped 
from  the  chain  back  into  the  cistern.  And  then  she 
was  gone — gone  with  a  light,  rapid  step,  down  the  ave 
nue  of  elms,  through  the  gate,  across  the  meadows,  out 
into  the  fields — bucket  and  cistern,  Mother  Superior 
and  sisterhood,  vows  and  martyrs,  zeal  of  Carmelite, 
passion  of  Christ,  all  forgotten. 

When,  nearly  a  month  before,  news  had  reached  the 
Mother  Superior  of  the  young  stranger's  accident,  in 
accordance  with  the  rule  which  excludes  from  the  con 
vent  worldly  affairs,  she  had  not  made  it  known  except 
to  those  who  were  to  aid  in  carrying  out  her  kindly 
plans  for  him.  To  Sister  Dolorosa,  therefore,  the  ac 
cident  had  just  occurred,  and  now — now  as' she  hasten 
ed  to  him — he  was  dying. 

During  the  intervening  weeks  she  had  undergone  by 
insensible  degrees  a  deterioration  of  nature.  Prayer 
had  not  passed  her  lips.  She  believed  that  she  had  no 
right  to  pray.  Nor  had  she  confessed.  From  such  a 
confession  as  she  had  now  to  make,  certain  new-born 
instincts  of  womanhood  bade  her  shrink  more  deeply 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  253 

into  the  privacy  of  her  own  being.  And  therefore  she 
had  become  more  scrupulous,  if  possible,  of  outward 
duties,  that  no  one  might  be  led  to  discover  the  paral 
ysis  of  her  spiritual  life.  But  there  was  that  change 
in  her  which  soon  drew  attention ;  and  thenceforth,  in 
order  to  hide  her  heart,  she  began  to  practice  with  the 
Mother  Superior  little  acts  of  self-concealment  and  eva 
sion,  and  by-and-by  other  little  acts  of  pretense  and 
feigning,  until  —  God  pity  her!  —  being  most  sorely 
pressed  by  questions,  when  sometimes  she  would  be 
found  in  tears  or  sitting  listless  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap  like  one  who  is  under  the  spell  of  mournful  phan 
tasies,  these  became  other  little  acts  of  positive  decep 
tion.  But  for  each  of  them  remorse  pre}ed  upon  her 
the  more  ruthlessly,  so  that  she  grew  thin  and  faded, 
with  a  shadow  of  fear  darkening  always  her  evasive 
eyes. 

What  most  held  her  apart,  and  most  she  deemed  put 
upon  her  the  angry  ban  of  Heaven,  was  the  conscious 
ness  that  she  still  loved  him,  and  that  she  was  even 
bound  to  him  the  more  inseparably  since  the  night  of 
their  last  meeting.  .  For  it  was  then  that  emotions  had 
been  awakened  which  drew  her  to  him  in  ways  that  love 
alone  could  not  have  done.  These  emotions  had  their 
source  in  the  belief  that  she  owed  him  reparation  for 
the  disappointment  which  she  had  brought  upon  his 
life.  The  recollection  of  his  face  when  she  had  denied 
him  hope  rose  in  constant  reproach  before  her  ;  and 
since  she  held  herself  blamable  that  he  had  loved  her, 
she  took  the  whole  responsibility  of  his  unhappiness. 

It  was  this  sense  of  having  wronged  him  that  cleft 
even  conscience  in  her  and  left  her  struggling.  But 
how  to  undo  the  wrong — this  she  vainly  pondered  ;  for 


254  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

he  was  gone,  bearing  away  into  his  life  the  burden  of 
enticed  and  baffled  hope. 

On  the  morning  when  she  was  at  the  cistern — for  the 
Sisters  of  the  Order  have  among  them  such  interchange 
of  manual  offices — if,  as  she  read  the  letter  that  Ezra 
gave  her,  any  one  motive  stood  out  clear  in  the  stress 
of  that  terrible  moment,  it  was,  that  having  been  false 
to  other  duties  she  might  at  least  be  true  to  this.  She 
felt  but  one  desire— to  atone  to  him  by  any  sacrifice  of 
herself  that  would  make  his  death  more  peaceful.  Be 
yond  this  everything  was  void  and  dark  within  her  as 
she  hurried  on,  except  the  consciousness  that  by  this 
act  she  separated  herself  from  her  Order  and  termi 
nated  her  religious  life  in  utter  failure  and  disgrace. 

The  light,  rapid  step  with  which  she  had  started  soon 
brought  her  across  the  fields.  As  she  drew  near  the 
house,  Martha,  who  had  caught  sight  of  her  figure 
through  the  window,  made  haste  to  the  door  and  stood 
awaiting  her.  Sister  Dolorosa  merely  approached  and 
said  : 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  old  woman  did  not  answer.  Then 
she  pointed  to  a  door  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  porch, 
and  with  a  sparkle  of  peculiar  pleasure  in  her  eyes  she 
saw  Sister  Dolorosa  cross  and  enter  it.  A  little  while 
longer  she  stood,  watching,  the  key-hole  furtively,  but 
then  went  back  to  the  fireside,  where  she  sat  upright 
and  motionless  with  the  red  flannel  pushed  back  from 
her  listening  ears. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted  through  half-closed  shut 
ters.  Gordon  lay  asleep  near  the  edge  of  the  bed,  with 
his  face  turned  towards  the  door.  It  might  well  have 

*  o 

been  thought  the  face  of  one  dying.     Her  eyes  rested 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  255 

on  it  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  stifled  sob  and  moan 
she  glided  across  the  room  and  sank  on  her  knees  at 
the  bedside.  In  the  utter  self-forgetfulness  of  her  re 
morse,  pity,  and  love,  she  put  one  arm  around  his  neck, 
she  buried  her  face  close  beside  his. 

He  had  awaked,  bewildered,  as  he  saw  her  coming 
towards  him.  He  now  took  her  arm  from  around  his 
neck,  pressed  her  hand  again  and  again  to  his  lips,  and 
then  laying  it  on  his  heart  crossed  his  arms  over  it, 
letting  one  of  his  hands  rest  on  her  head.  For  a  little 
while  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak ;  his  love 
threatened  to  overmaster  his  self-renunciation.  But 
then,  not  knowing  why  she  had  come  unless  from  some 
great  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  or  perhaps  to  see  him 
once  more  since  he  was  now  soon  to  go  away,  and  not 
understanding  any  cause  for  her  distress  but  the  trag 
edy  in  which  he  had  entangled  her  life — feeling  only 
sorrow  for  her  sorrow  and  wishing  only  by  means  of 
his  last'  words  to  help  her  back  to  such  peace  as  she 
still  might  win,  he  said  to  her  with  immeasurable  gen 
tleness  : 

"  I  thought  you  would  never  come  !  I  thought  I 
should  have  to  go  away  without  seeing  you  again ! 
They  tell  me  it  is  not  yet  a  month  since  the  accident, 
but  it  seems  to  me  so  long — a  lifetime  !  I  have  lain 
here  day  after  day  thinking  it  over,  and  I  see  things 
differently  now — so  differently !  That  is  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you  once  more.  I  wanted  you  to  understand 
that  I  felt  you  had  done  right  in  refusing — in  refusing 
to  marry  me.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  never  to  blame 
yourself  for  what  has  happened — never  to  let  any 
thought  of  having  made  me  unhappy  add  to  the  sorrow 
of  your  life.  It  is  my  fault,  not  yours.  But  I  meant 


256  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

it  — God  knows,  I  meant  it! — for  the  happiness  of  us 
both  !  I  believed  that  your  life  was  not  suited  to  you 
I  meant  to  make  you  happy !  But  since  you  cannot 
give  up  your  life,  I  have  only  been  unkind.  And  since 
you  think  it  wrong  to  give  it  up,  I  am  glad  that  you  are 
so  true  to  it !  If  you  must  live  it,  Heaven  only  knows 
how  glad  I  am  that  you  will  live  it  heroically.  And 
Heaven  keep  me  equally  true  to  the  duty  in  mine,  that 
I  also  shall  not  fail  in  it !  If  we  never  meet  again,  we 
can  always  think  of  each  other  as  living  true  to  our 
selves  and  to  one  another.  Don't  deny  me  this  !  Let 
me  believe  that  your  thoughts  and  prayers  will  always 
follow  me.  Even  your  vows  will  not  deny  me  this !  It 
will  always  keep  us  near  each  other,  and  it  will  bring 
us  together  where  they  cannot  separate  us." 

He  had  spoken  with  entire  repression  of  himself,  in 
the  slow  voice  of  an  invalid,  and  on  the  stillness  of  the 
room  each  word  had  fallen  with  hard  distinctness. 
But  now,  with  the  thought  of  losing  her,  by  a  painful 
effort  he  moved  closer  to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  put  his 
arms  around  her  neck,  drew  her  face  against  his  own, 
and  continued  : 

"  But  do  not  think  it  is  easy  to  tell  you  this  !  Do 
not  think  it  is  easy  to  give  you  up !  Do  not  think  that 
I  do  not  love  you  !  Oh  Pauline — not  in  another  life, 
but  in  this — in  this!"  He  could  say  no  more  ;  and  out 
of  his  physical  weakness  tears  rose  to  his  eyes  and  fell 
drop  by  drop  upon  her  veil. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  257 


VIII. 

Sister  Dolorosa  had  been  missed  from  the  convent. 
There  had  been  inquiry  growing  ever  more  anxious, 
and  search  growing  ever  more  hurried.  They  found 
her  bucket  overturned  at  the  cistern,  and  near  it  the 
print  of  her  feet  in  the  moist  earth.  But  she  was  gone. 
They  sought  her  in  every  hidden  closet,  they  climbed 
to  the  observatory  and  scanned  the  surrounding  fields. 
Work  was  left  unfinished,  prayer  unended,  as  the  news 
spread  through  the  vast  building ;  and  as  time  went  by 
and  nothing  was  heard  of  her,  uneasiness  became  alarm, 
and  alarm  became  a  vague,  immeasurable  foreboding  of 
ill.  Each  now  remembered  how  strange  of  late  had  been 
Sister  Dolorosa's  life  and  actions,  and  no  one  had  the 
heart  to  name  her  own  particular  fears  to  any  other  or 
to  read  them  in  any  other's  eyes.  Time  passed  on  and 
discipline  in  the  convent  was  forgotten.  They  began 
to  pour  out  into  the  long  corridors,  and  in  tumultuous 
groups  passed  this  way  and  that,  seeking  the  Mother 
Superior.  But  the  Mother  Superior  had  gone  to  the 
church  with  the  same  impulse  that  in  all  ages  has 
brought  the  human  heart  to  the  altar  of  God  when 
stricken  by  peril  or  disaster;  and  into  the  church  they 
also  gathered.  Into  the  church  likewise  came  the 
white  flock  of  the  novices,  who  had  burst  from  their 
isolated  quarter  of  the  convent  with  a  sudden  contagion 
of  fear.  When,  therefore,  the  Mother  Superior  rose 
from  where  she  had  been  kneeling,  turned,  and  in  the 
dark  church  saw  them  assembled  close  around  her, 
pallid,  anxious,  disordered,  and  looking  with  helpless 
17 


258  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

dependence  to  her  for  that  assurance  for  which  she 
had  herself  in  helpless  dependence  looked  to  God,  so 
-unnerved  was  she  by  the  spectacle  that  strength  failed 
her  and  she  sank  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar,  stretch 
ing  out  her  arms  once  more  in  voiceless  supplication 
towards  the  altar  of  the  Infinite  helpfulness. 

But  at  that  moment  a  little  novice,  whom  Sister  Dol- 
orosa  loved  and  whom  she  had  taught  the  music  of  the 
harp,  came  running  into  the  church,  wringing  her  hands 
and  crying.  When  she  was  half-way  down  the  aisle? 
in  a  voice  that  rang  through  the  building,  she  called 
out : 

"  Oh,  Mother,  she  is  coming !  Something  has  hap 
pened  to  her !  Her  veil  is  gone  !"  and,  turning  again, 
she  ran  out  of  the  church. 

They  were  hurrying  after  her  when  a  note  of  com 
mand,  inarticulate  but  imperious,  from  the  Mother 
Superior  arrested  every  foot  and  drew  every  eye  in  that 
direction.  Voice  had  failed  her,  but  with  a  gesture 
full  of  dignity  and  reproach  she  waved  them  back,  and 
supporting  her  great  form  between  two  of  the  nuns, 
she  advanced  slowly  down  the  aisle  of  the  church  and 
passed  out  by  the  front  entrance.  But  they  forgot  to 
obey  her  and  followed;  and  when  she  descended  the 
steps  to  the  bottom  and  made  a  sign  that  she  would 
wait  there,  on  the  steps  behind  they  stood  grouped 
and  crowded  back  to  the  sacred  doors. 

Yes,  she  was  coming — coming  up  the  avenue  of  elms 
— coming  slowly,  as  though  her  strength  were  almost 
gone.  As  she  passed  under  the  trees  on  one  side  of  the 
avenue  she  touched  their  trunks  one  by  one  for  support. 
She  walked  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground  and  with  the 
abstraction  of  one  who  has  lost  the  purpose  of  walking. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  259 

When  she  was  perhaps  half-way  up  the  avenue,  as  she 
paused  by  one  of  the  trees  and  supported  herself  against 
it,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  them  all  waiting  to  re 
ceive  her  on  the  steps  of  the  church.  For  a  little  while 
she  stood  and  surveyed  the  scene ;  the  Mother  Supe 
rior  standing  in  front,  her  sinking  form  supported  be 
tween  two  Sisters,  her  hands  clasping  the  crucifix  to 
her  bosom ;  behind  her  the  others,  step  above  step, 
back  to  the  doors ;  some  looking  at  her  with  frightened 
faces ;  others  with  their  heads  buried  on  each  other's 
shoulders ;  and  hiding  somewhere  in  the  throng,  the 
little  novice,  only  the  sound  of  whose  sobbing  revealed 
her  presence.  Then  she  took  her  hand  from  the  tree, 
walked  on  quite  steadily  until  she  was  several  yards 
away,  and  paused  again. 

She  had  torn  off  her  veil  and  her  head  was  bare  and 
shining.  She  had  torn  the  sacred  symbol  from  her 
bosom,  and  through  the  black  rent  they  could  see  the 
glistening  whiteness  of  her  naked  breast.  Compre 
hending  them  in  one  glance,  as  though  she  wished 
them  all  to  listen,  she  looked  into  the  face  of  the  Moth 
er  Superior,  and  began  to  speak  in  a  voice  utterly  for 
lorn,  as  of  one  who  has  passed  the  limits  of  suffering. 

"  Mother !— " 

"Mother!—" 

She  passed  one  hand  slowly  across  her  forehead,  to 
brush  away  some  cloud  from  her  brain,  and  for  the 
third  time  she  began  to  speak : 

"  Mother !— " 

Then  she  paused,  pressed  both  palms  quickly  to 
her  temples,  and  turned  her  eyes  in  bewildered  appeal 
towards  the  Mother  Superior.  But  she  did  not  fall. 
With  a  cry  that  might  have  come  from  the  heart  of  the 


260"  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

boundless  pity  the  Mother  Superior  broke  away  from 
the  restraining  arms  of  the  nuns  and  rushed  forward 
and  caught  her  to  her  bosom. 


IX. 

The  day  had  come  when  Gordon  was  well  enough  to 
go  home.  As  he  sat  giving  directions  to  Ezra,  who 
was  awkwardly  packing  his  valise,  he  looked  over  the 
books,  papers,  and  letters  that  lay  on  the  table  near 
the  bed. 

"  There  is  one  letter  missing,"  he  said,  with  a  trou 
bled  expression,  as  he  finished  his  search.  Then  he 
added  quickly,  in  a  tone  of  helpless  entreaty: 

"  You  couldn't  have  taken  it  to  the  station  and  mail 
ed  it  with  the  others,  could  you,  Ezra  ?  It  was  not  to 
go  to  the  station.  It  was  to  have  gone  to  the  convent." 

The  last  sentence  he  uttered  rather  to  his  own 
thought  than  for  the  ear  of  his  listener. 

"  I  took  it  to  the  convent,"  said  Ezra,  stoutly,  raising 
himself  from  over  the  valise  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
"I  didn't  take  it  to  the  station  !" 

Gordon  wheeled  on  him,  giving  a  wrench  to  his 
wound  which  may  have  caused  the  groan  that  burst 
from  him,  and  left  him  white  and  trembling. 

"You  took  it  to  the  convent!  Great  God,  Ezra! 
When  ?" 

"  The  day  you  told  me,  to  take  it,"  replied  Ezra,  simply. 
"The  day  the  Sister  came  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  Ezra!"  he  cried  piteously,  looking  into  the 
rugged,  faithful  countenance  of  the  old  man,  and  feeling 
that  he  had  not  the  right  to  censure  him. 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  261 

Now  for  the  first  time  he  comprehended  the  whole 
significance  of  what  had  happened.  He  had  never 
certainly  known  what  motive  had  brought  her  to  him 
that  day.  He  had  never  been  able  to  understand  why, 
having  come,  she  had  gone  away  with  such  abruptness. 
Scarcely  had  he  begun  to  speak  to  her  when  she  had 
strangely  shrunk  from  him  ;  and  scarcely  had  he  ceased 
speaking  when  she  had  left  the  room  without  a  word, 
and  without  his  having  so  much  as  seen  her  face. 

Slowly  now  the  sad  truth  forced  itself  upon  his  mind 
that  she  had  come  in  answer  to  his  entreaty.  She  must 
have  thought  his  letter  just  written,  himself  just  wound 
ed  and  dying.  It  was  as  if  he  had  betrayed  her  into 
the  utmost  expression  of  her  love  for  him  and  in  that 
moment  had  coldly  admonished  her  of  her  duty.  For 
him  she  had  broken  what  was  the  most  sacred  obliga 
tion  of  her  life,  and  in  return  he  had  given  her  an  ex 
hortation  to  be  faithful  to  her  vows. 

He  went  home  to  one  of  the  older  secluded  country- 
places  of  the  Blue-grass  Region  not  far  from  Lexington. 
His  illness  served  to  account  for  a  strange  gravity  and 
sadness  of  nature  in  him.  When  the  winter  had  passed 
and  spring  had  come,  bringing  perfect  health  again, 
this  sadness  only  deepened.  For  health  had  brought 
back  the  ardor  of  life.  The  glowing  colors  of  the 
world  returned ;  and  with  these  there  flowed  back  into 
his  heart,  as  waters  flow  back  into  a  well  that  has 
gone  dry,  the  perfect  love  of  youth  and  strength  with 
which  he  had  loved  her  and  tried  to  win  her  at  first. 
And  with  this  love  of  her  came  back  the  first  complete 
realization  that  he  had  lost  her ;  and  with  this  pain, 
that  keenest  pain  of  having  been  most  unkind  to  her 
when  he  had  striven  to  be  kindest. 


262  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

He  now  looked  back  upon  his  illness,  as  one  who 
has  gained  some  clear  headland  looks  down  upon  a 
valley  so  dark  and  overhung  with  mist  that  he  cannot 
trace  his  own  course  across  it.  He  was  no  longer  in 
sympathy  with  that  mood  of  self-renunciation  which 
had  influenced  him  in  their  last  interview.  He  charged 
himself  with  having  given  up  too  easily ;  for  might  he 
not,  after  all,  have  won  her?  Might  he  not,  little  by 
little,  have  changed  her  conscience,  as  little  by  little  he 
had  gained  her  love  ?  Would  it  have  been  possible,  he 
asked  himself  again  and  again,  for  her  ever  to  have 
come  to  him  as  she  had  done  that  day,  had  not  her 
conscience  approved  ?  Of  all  his  torturing  thoughts, 
none  cost  him  greater  suffering  than  living  over  in  im 
agination  what  must  have  happened  to  her  since  then — 
the  humiliation,  perhaps  public  exposure ;  followed  by 
penalties  and  sorrows  of  which  he  durst  not  think,  and 
certainly  a  life  more  unrelieved  in  gloom  and  desolation. 

In  the  summer  his  father's  health  began  to  fail  and 
in  the  autumn  he  died.  The  winter  was  passed  in  set 
tling  the  business  of  the  estate,  and  before  the  spring 
passed  again  Gordon  found  himself  at  the  head  of  af 
fairs,  and  stretching  out  before  him,  calm  and  clear, 
the  complete  independence  of  his  new-found  manhood. 
His  life  was  his  own  to  make  it  what  he  would.  As 
fortunes  go  in  Kentucky  he  was  wealthy,  his  farm  being 
among  the  most  beautiful  of  the  beautiful  ones  which 
make  up  that  land,  and  his  homestead  being  dear 
through  family  ties  and  those  intimations  of  fireside 
peace  which  lay  closest  the  heart  of  his  ideal  life. 
But  amid  all  his  happiness,  that  one  lack  which  made 
the  rest  appear  lacking — that  vacancy  within  which 
nothing  would  fill !  The  beauty  of  the  rich  land  hence. 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  263 

forth  brought  him  the  dream-like  recollection  of  a  rough, 
poor  country  a  hundred  miles  away.  Its  quiet  home 
steads,  with  the  impression  they  create  of  sweet  and 
simple  lives,  reminded  him  only  of  a  convent  standing 
lonely  and  forbidding  on  its  wide  landscape.  The  calm 
liberty  of  woods  and  fields,  the  bounding  liberty  of  life, 
the  enlightened  liberty  of  conscience  and  religion,  which 
were  to  him  the  best  gifts  of  his  State,  his  country,  and 
his  time,  forced  on  him  perpetual  contrast  with  the  an 
cient  confinement  in  which  she  languished. 

Still  he  threw  himself  resolutely  into  his  duties.  In 
all  that  he  did  or  planned  he  felt  a  certain  sacred,  up 
lifting  force  added  to  his  life  by  that  high  bond  through 
which  he  had  sought  to  link  their  sundered  path-ways. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  haunting  thought  of  what 
might  have  befallen  her  since  became  a  corrosive  care, 
and  began  to  eat  out  the  heart  of  his  resolute  purposes. 

So  that  when  the  long,  calm  summer  had  passed  and 
autumn  had  come,  bringing  him  lonelier  days  in  the 
brown  fields,  lonelier  rides  on  horseback  through  the 
gorgeous  woods,  and  lonelier  evenings  beside  his  re 
kindled  hearth-stones,  he  could  bear  the  suspense  no 
longer,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back,  if  but  to  hear 
tidings  whether  she  yet  were  living  in  the  convent.  He 
realized,  of  course,  that  under  no  circumstances  could 
he  ever  again  speak  to  her  of  his  love.  He  had  put 
himself  on  the  side  of  her  conscience  against  his  own 
cause ;  but  he  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  himself  to  dissi 
pate  uncertainty  regarding  her  fate.  This  done,  he 
could  return,  however  sadly,  and  take  up  the  duties  of 
his  life  with  better  heart. 


264  .  SISTER   DOLORGSA. 


x. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  got  off  at  the  little  station. 
From  one  of  the  rustic  loungers  on  the  platform  he 
learned  that  old  Ezra  and  Martha  had  gone  the  year 
before  to  live  with  a  son  in  a  distant  State,  and  that 
their  scant  acres  had  been  absorbed  in  the  convent 
domain. 

Slowly  he  took  his  way  across  the  sombre  fields. 
Once  more  he  reached  the  brown  foot-path  and  the 
edge  of  the  pale,  thin  corn.  Once  more  the  summon 
ing  whistle  of  the  quail  came  sweet  and  clear  from  the 
depths  of  a  neighboring  thicket.  Silently  in  the  red 
dening  west  were  rising  the  white  cathedrals  of  the  sky. 
It  was  on  yonder  hill-top  he  had  first  seen  her,  stand 
ing  as  though  transfigured  in  the  evening  light.  Over 
whelmed  by  the  memories  which  the  place  evoked,  he 
passed  on  towards  the  convent.  The  first  sight  of  it 
in  the  distance  smote  him  with  a  pain  so  sharp  that  a 
groan  escaped  his  lips  as  from  a  reopened  wound. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  vesper  service.  Entering  the 
church  he  sat  where  he  had  sat  before.  How  still  it 
was,  how  faint  the  autumnal  sunlight  stealing  in  through 
the  sainted  windows,  how  motionless  the  dark  company 
of  nuns  seated  on  one  side  of  the  nave,  how  rigid  the 
white  rows  of  novices  on  the  other ! 

With  sad  fascination  of  search  his  eyes  roved  among 
the  black-shrouded  devotees.  She  was  not  there.  In 
the  organ-loft  above,  a  voice,  poor  and  thin,  began  to 
pour  out  its  wavering  little  tide  of  song.  She  was  not 
there,  then.  Was  her  soul  already  gone  home  to  Heaven  ? 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  265 

Noiselessly  from  behind  the  altar  the  sacristine  had 
come  forth  and  begun  to  light  the  candles.  With  eyes 
strained  and  the  heart  gone  out  of  him  he  hung  upon 
the  movements  of  her  figure.  A  slight,  youthful  figure 
it  was — slighter,  as  though  worn  and  wasted ;  and  the 
hands  which  so  firmly  bore  the  long  taper  looked  too 
white  and  fragile  to  have  upheld  aught  heavier  than  the 
stalk  of  a  lily. 

With  infinite  meekness  and  reverence  she  moved 
hither  and  thither  about  the  shrine,  as  though  each 
footfall  were  a  step  nearer  the  glorious  Presence,  each 
breath  a  prayer.  One  by  one  there  sprang  into  being, 
beneath  her  touch  of  love,  the  silvery  spires  of  sacred 
flame.  No  angel  of  the  night  ever  more  softly  lit  the 
stars  of  heaven.  And  it  was  thus  that  he  saw  her  for 
the  last  time — folded  back  to  the  bosom  of  that  faith 
from  which  it  was  left  him  to  believe  that  he  had  all 
but  rescued  her  to  love  and  happiness,  and  set,  as  a 
chastening  admonition,  to  tend  the  mortal  fires  on  the 
altar  of  eternal  service. 

Looking  at  her  across  the  vast  estranging  gulf  of 
destiny,  heart-broken,  he  asked  himself  in  his  poor 
yearning  way  whether  she  longer  had  any  thought  of 
him  or  longer  loved  him.  For  answer  he  had  only  the 
assurance  given  in  her  words,  which  now  rose  as  a 
benediction  in  his  memory : 

"If  He  will  deign  to  hear  the  ceaseless,  fervent  peti 
tion  of  one  so  erring,  He  will  not  leave  you  unhappy  on 
account  of  that  love  for  me  which  in  this  world  it  will 
never  be  allowed  me  to  return." 

One  highest  star  of  adoration  she  kindled  last,  and 
then  turned  and  advanced  down  the  aisle.  He  was  sit 
ting  close  to  it,  and  as  she  came  towards  him,  with  irre- 


266  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

sistible  impulse  he  bent  forward  to  meet  her,  his  lips 
parted  as  though  to  speak,  his  eyes  implored  her  for 
recognition,  his  hands  were  instinctively  moved  to  at 
tract  her  notice.  But  she  passed  him  with  unuplifted 
eyes.  The  hem  of  her  dress  swept  across  his  foot.  In 
that  intense  moment,  which  compressed  within  itself 
the  joy  of  another  meeting  and  the  despair  of  an  eternal 
farewell— in  that  moment  he  may  have  tried  to  read 
through  her  face  and  beyond  it  in  her  very  soul  the 
story  of  what  she  must  have  suffered.  To  any  one  else, 
on  her  face  rested  only  that  beauty,  transcending  all  de 
scription,  which  is  born  of  the  sorrow  of  earth  and  the 
peace  of  God. 

Mournful  as  was  this  last  sight  of  her,  and  touched 
with  remorse,  he  could  yet  bear  it  away  in  his  heart 
for  long  remembrance  not  untempered  by  consolation. 
He  saw  her  well ;  he  saw  her  faithful ;  he  saw  her  bear 
ing  the  sorrows  of  her  lot  with  angelic  sweetness. 
Through  years  to  come  the  beauty  of  this  scene  might 
abide  with  him,  lifted  above  the  realm  of  mortal  changes 
by  the  serenitude  of  her  immovable  devotion. 


XI. 

There  was  thus  spared  him  knowledge  of  the  great 
change  that  had  taken  place  regarding  her  within  the 
counsels  of  the  Order;  nor,  perhaps,  was  he  ever  to 
learn  of  the  other  changes,  more  eventful  still,  that  were 
now  fast  closing  in  upon  her  destiny. 

When  the  Creator  wishes  to  create  a  woman,  the 
beauty  of  whose  nature  is  to  prefigure  the  types  of  an 
immortal  world,  he  endows  her  more  plenteously  with 


SISTER    DOLOROSA,  .267 

the  faculty  of  innocent  love.  The  contravention  of  this 
faculty  has  time  after  time  resulted  in  the  most  memo 
rable  tragedies  that  have  ever  saddened  the  history  of 
the  race.  He  had  given  to  the  nature  of  Pauline  Cam- 
bron  two  strong,  unwearying  wings :  the  pinion  of  faith 
and  the  pinion  of  love.  It  was  his  will  that  she  should 
soar  by  the  use  of  both.  But  they  had  denied  her  the 
use  of  one  ;  and  the  vain  and  bewildered  struggles  which 
marked  her  life  thenceforth  were  as  those  of  a  bird 
that  should  try  to  rise  into  the  air  with  one  of  its 
wings  bound  tight  against  its  bosom. 

After  the  illness  which  followed  upon  the  events  of 
that  terrible  day,  she  took  towards  her  own  conduct  the 
penitential  attitude  enjoined  by  her  religion.  There  is 
little  need  to  lay  bare  all  that  followed.  She  had  pass 
ed  out  of  her  soft  world  of  heroic  dreams  into  the  hard 
world  of  unheroic  reality.  She  had  chosen  a  name  to 
express  her  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of  the  world, 
and  the  sorrows  of  the  world  had  broken  in  upon  her. 
Out  of  the  white  dawn  of  the  imagination  she  had  step 
ped  into  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day. 

Long  after  penances  and  prayers  were  over,  and  by 
others  she  might  have  felt  herself  forgiven,  she  was  as 
far  as  ever  from  that  forgiveness  which  comes  from 
within.  It  is  not  characteristic  of  a  nature  such  as 
hers  to  win  pardon  so  easily  for  such  an  offence  as  she 
considered  hers.  Indeed,  as  time  passed  on,  the  pow 
ers  of  her  being  seemed  concentred  more  and  more  in 
one  impassioned  desire  to  expiate  her  sin  ;  for,  as  time 
passed  on,  despite  penances  and  prayers,  she  realized 
that  she  still  loved  him. 

As  she  pondered  this  she  said  to  herself  that  peace 
would  never  come  unless  she  should  go  elsewhere  and 


268  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

begin  life  over  in  some  place  that  was  free  from  the 
memories  of  her  fall,  there  was  so  much  to  remind  her 
of  him.  She  could  not  go  into  the  garden  without  re 
calling  the  day  when  they  had  walked  through  it  side 
by  side.  She  could  not  cross  the  threshold  of  the 
church  without  being  reminded  that  it  was  the  scene 
of  her  unfaithfulness  and  of  her  exposure.  The  grave 
yard,  the  foot-path  across  the  fields,  the  observatory — 
all  were  full  of  disturbing  images.  And  therefore  she 
besought  the  Mother  Superior  to  send  her  away  to 
some  one  of  the  missions  of  the  Order,  thinking  that 
thus  she  would  win  forgetfulness  of  him  and  singleness 
of  heart. 

But  while  the  plan  of  doing  this  was  yet  being  con 
sidered  by  the  Mother  Superior,  there  happened  one  of 
those  events  which  seem  to  fit  into  the  crises  of  our 
lives  as  though  determined  by  the  very  laws  of  fate. 
The  attention  of  the  civilized  world  had  not  yet  been 
fixed  upon  the  heroic  labors  of  the  Belgian  priest,  Fa 
ther  Damien,  among  the  lepers  of  the  island  of  Molo- 
kai.  But  it  has  been  stated  that  near  the  convent  are 
the  monks  of  La  Trappe.  Among  these  monks  were 
friends  of  the  American  priest,  Brother  Joseph,  who  for 
years  was  one  of  Father  Damien's  assistants ;  and  to 
these  friends  this  priest  from  time  to  time  wrote  letters, 
in  which  he  described  at  great  length  the  life  of  the 
leper  settlement  and  the  work  of  the  small  band  of 
men  and  women  who  had  gone  to  labor  in  that  remote 
and  awful  vineyard.  The  contents  of  these  letters 
were  made  known  to  the  ecclesiastical  superior  of  the 
convent;  and  one  evening  he  made  them  the  subject 
of  a  lecture  to  the  assembled  nuns  and  novices,  dwelling 
with  peculiar  eloquence  upon  the  devotion  of  the  three 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  269 

Franciscan  Sisters  who  had  become  outcasts  from  hu 
man*  society  that  they  might  nurse  and  teach  leprous 
girls,  until  inevitable  death  should  overtake  them  also. 

Among  that  breathless  audience  of  women  there  was 
one  soul  on  whom  his  words  fell  with  the  force  of  a 
message  from  the  Eternal.  Here,  then,  at  last,  was  of 
fered  her  a  path-way  by  following  meekly  to  the  end  of 
which  she  might  perhaps  find  blessedness.  The  real 
Man  of  Sorrows  appeared  to  stand  in  it  and  beckon 
her  on  to  the  abodes  of  those  abandoned  creatures 
whose  sufferings  he  had  with  peculiar  pity  so  often 
stretched  forth  his  hand  to  heal.  When  she  laid  be 
fore  the  Mother  Superior  her  petition  to  be  allowed  to 
go,  it  was  at  first  refused,  being  regarded  as  a  momen 
tary  impulse ;  but  months  passed,  and  at  intervals,  al 
ways  more  earnestly,  she  renewed  her  request.  It  was 
pointed  out  to  her  that  when  one  has  gone  among  the 
lepers  there  is  no  return  ;  the  alternatives  are  either 
life-long  banishment,  or  death  from  leprosy,  usually  at 
the  end  of  a  few  years.  But  always  her  reply  was : 

"In  the  name  of  Christ,  Mother,  let  me  go !" 

Meantime  it  had  become  clear  to  the  Mother  Supe 
rior  that  some  change  of  scene  must  be  made.  The 
days  of  Sister  Dolorosa's  usefulness  in  the  convent 
were  too  plainly  over. 

It  hao^not  been  possible  in  that  large  household  of 
women  to  conceal  the  fact  of  her  unfaithfulness  to  her 
vows.  As  one  black  veil  whispered  to  another — as  one 
white  veil  communed  with  its  attentive  neighbor — little 
by  little  events  were  gathered  and  pieced  together,  un 
til,  in  different  forms  of  error  and  rumor,  the  story  be 
came  known  to  all.  Some  from  behind  window  lattices 
had  watched  her  in  the  garden  with  the  young  stranger 


270  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

on  the  day  of  his  visiting  the  convent.  Others  had 
heard  of  his  lying  wounded  at  the  farm-house.  Still 
others  were  sure  that  under  pretext  of  visiting  old 
Martha  she  had  often  met  him  in  the  fields.  And  then 
the  scene  on  the  steps  of  the  church,  when  she  had  re 
turned  soiled  and  torn  and  fainting. 

So  that  from  the  day  on  which  she  arose  from  her 
illness  and  began  to  go  about  the  convent,  she  was 
singled  out  as  a  target  for  those  small  arrows  which 
the  feminine  eye  directs  with  such  faultless  skill  at  one 
of  its  own  sex.  With  scarcely  perceptible  movements 
they  would  draw  aside  when  passing  her,  as  though  to 
escape  corrupting  contact.  Certain  ones  of  the  young 
er  Sisters,  who  were  jealous  of  her  beauty,  did  not  fail 
to  drop  innuendoes  for  her  to  overhear.  And  upon 
some  of  the  novices,  whose  minds  were  still  wavering 
between  the  Church  and  the  world,  it  was  thought  that 
her  example  might  have  a  dangerous  influence. 

It  is  always  wrong  to  judge  motives ;  but  it  is  pos 
sible  that  the  head  of  the  Order  may  have  thought  it 
best  that  this  ruined  life  should  take  on  the  halo  of 
martyrdom,  from  which  fresh  lustre  would  be  reflected 
upon  the  annals  of  the  Church.  However  this  may  be, 
after  about  eighteen  months  of  waiting,  during  which 
correspondence  was  held  with  the  Sandwich  Islands,  it 
was  determined  that  Sister  Dolorosa  should  be  allowed 
to  go  thither  and  join  the  labors  of  the  Franciscan 
Sisters. 

From  the  day  when  consent  was  given  she  passed 
into  that  peace  with  which  one  ascends  the  scaffold  or 
awaits  the  stake.  It  was  this  look  of  peace  that  Gor 
don  had  seen  on  her  face  as  she  moved  hither  and 
thither  about  the  shrine. 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  271 

Only  a  few  weeks  after  he  had  thus  seen  her  the 
day  came  for  her  to  go.  Of  those  who  took  part  in  the 
scene  of  farewell  she  was  the  most  unmoved.  A  month 
later  she  sailed  from  San  Francisco  for  Honolulu  ;  and 
in  due  time  there  came  from  Honolulu  to  the  Mother 
Superior  the  following  letter.  It  contains  all  that  re 
mains  of  the  earthly  history  of  Pauline  Cambron  : 


XII. 

"  KALAWAO,  MCLOKAI,  HAWAIIAN  ISLANDS, 
'  'January  1, 188 — . 

"DEAR  MOTHER, — I  entreat  you  not  to  let  the  sight  of 
this  strange  handwriting,  instead  of  one  that  must  be 
so  familiar,  fill  you  with  too  much  alarm.  I  hasten  to 
assure  you  that  before  my  letter  closes  you  will  under 
stand  why  Sister  Dolorosa  has  not  written  herself. 

"  Since  the  hour  when  the  vessel  sailed  from  the  Amer 
ican  port,  bearing  to  us  that  young  life  as  a  consecrated 
helper  in  our  work  among  these  suffering  outcasts  of 
the  human  race,  I  know  that  your  thoughts  and  prayers 
have  followed  her  with  unceasing  anxiety;  so  that  first 
I  should  give  you  tidings  that  the  vessel  reached  Hono 
lulu  in  safety.  I  should  tell  you  also  that  she  had  a 
prosperous  voyage,  and  that  she  is  now  happy — far  hap 
pier  than  when  she  left  you.  I  know,  likewise,  that 
your  imagination  has  constantly  hovered  about  this 
island,  and  that  you  have  pictured  it  to  yourself  as  the 
gloomiest  of  all  spots  in  the  universe  of  God ;  so  that 
in  the  next  place  I  should  try  to  remove  this  impression 
by  giving  you  some  description  of  the  island  itself, 
wmch  has  now  become  her  unchanging  home. 


272  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

"  The  island  of  Molokai,  then,  on  which  the  leper  set 
tlement  has  been  located  by  the  Government,  is  long, 
and  shaped  much  like  the  leaf  of  the  willow-tree.  The 
Sandwich  Islands,  as  you  well  know,  are  a  group  of  vol 
canoes  out  of  which  the  fires  have  for  the  most  part  long 
since  died.  Molokai,  therefore,  is  really  but  a  mount 
ain  of  cooled  lava,  half  of  which  perhaps  is  beneath  the 
level  of  the  sea.  The  two  leper  villages  are  actually 
situated  in  the  cup  of  an  ancient  crater.  The  island 
is  very  low  along  the  southern  coast,  and  slopes  gradu 
ally  to  its  greatest  altitude  on  the  northern  ridge,  from 
which  the  descent  to  the  sea  is  in  places  all  but  per 
pendicular.  It  is  between  the  bases  of  these  northern 
cliffs  and  the  sea  that  the  villages  are  built.  In  the 
rear  of  them  is  a  long  succession  of  towering  precipices 
and  wild  ravines,  that  are  solemn  and  terrible  to  be 
hold  ;  and  in  front  of  them  there  is  a  coast  line  so 
rough  with  pointed  rocks  that  as  the  waves  rush  in 
upon  them  spray  is  often  thrown  to  the  height  of  fifty 
or  a  hundred  feet.  It  is  this  that  makes  the  landing  at 
times  so  dangerous  ;  and  at  other  times,  when  a  storm 
has  burst,  so  fatal.  So  that  shipwrecks  are  not  un 
known,  dear  Mother,  and  sometimes  add  to  the  sadness 
of  life  in  this  place. 

"  But  from  this  description  you  would  get  only  a  mis 
taken  idea  of  the  aspect  of  the  island.  It  is  sunny  and 
full  of  tropical  loveliness.  The  lapse  of  centuries  has 
in  places  covered  the  lava  with  exquisite  verdure.  Soft 
breezes  blow  here,  about  the  dark  cliffs  hang  purple 
atmospheres,  and  above  them  drift  pink  and  white 
clouds.  Sometimes  the  whole  island  is  veiled  in  gold 
en  mist.  Beautiful  streams  fall  down  its  green  preci 
pices  into  the  sea.  and  the  sea  itself  is  of  the  most  brill- 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  273 

iant  blue.  In  its  depths  are  growths  of  pure  white 
corals,  which  are  the  homes  of  fishes  of  gorgeous  colors. 

"If  I  should  speak  no  longer  of  the  island, but  of  the 
people,  I  could  perhaps  do  something  further  still  to 
dissipate  the  dread  with  which  you  and  other  strangers 
must  regard  us.  The  inhabitants  are  a  simple,  gener 
ous,  happy  race ;  and  there  are  many  spots  in  this 
world  —  many  in  Europe  and  Asia,  perhaps  some  in 
your  own  land  —  where  the  scenes  of  suffering  and 
death  are  more  poignant  and  appalling.  The  lepers 
live  for  the  most  part  in  decent  white  cottages.  Many 
are  the  happy  faces  that  are  seen  among  them  ;  so  that, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  healthy  people  would  some 
times  come  here  to  live  if  the  laws  did  not  forbid.  So 
much  has  Christianity  done  that  one  may  now  be  buried 
in  consecrated  ground. 

"  If  all  this  appears  worldly  and  frivolous,  dear  Moth 
er,  forgive  me !  If  I  have  chosen  to  withhold  from  you 
news  of  her,  of  whom  alone  I  know  you  are  thinking, 
it  is  because  I  have  wished  to  give  you  as  bright  a  pict 
ure  as  possible.  Perhaps  you  will  thus  become  the 
better  prepared  for  what  is  to  follow. 

"  So  that  before  I  go  further,  I  shall  pause  again  to 
describe  to  you  one  spot  which  is  the  loveliest  on  the 
island.  About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  village  of 
Kalawao  there  is  a  rocky  point  which  is  used  as  an  ir 
regular  landing-place  when  the  sea  is  wild.  Just  beyond 
this  point  there  is  an  inward  curve  of  the  coast,  making 
an  inlet  of  the  sea ;  and  from  the  water's  edge  there 
slopes  backward  into  the  bosom  of  the  island  a  deep 
ravine.  Down  this  ravine  there  falls  and  winds  a 
gleaming  white  cataract,  and  here  the  tropical  vegeta 
tion  grows  most  beautiful.  The  trees  are  wreathed 
18 


2/4  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

with  moist  creepers ;  the  edges  and  crevices  of  the  lava 
blocks  are  fringed  with  ferns  and  moss.  Here  the 
wild  ginger  blooms  and  the  crimson  lehua.  Here  grow 
trees  of  orange  and  palm  and  punhala  groves.  Here 
one  sees  the  rare  honey-bird  with  its  plumage  of  scarlet 
velvet,  the  golden  plover,  and  the  beautiful  white  bos'un- 
bird,  wheeling  about  the  black  cliff  heights.  The  spot  is 
as  beautiful  as  a  scene  in  some  fairy  tale.  When  storms 
roll  in  from  the  sea  the  surf  flows  far  back  into  this  ra 
vine,  and  sometimes — after  the  waters  have  subsided — 
a  piece  of  wreckage  from  the  ocean  is  left  behind. 

"  Forgive  me  once  more,  O  dear  Mother !  if  again  I 
seem  to  you  so  idle  and  unmeaning  in  my  words.  But 
I  have  found  it  almost  impossible  to  go  on ;  and,  be 
sides,  I  think  you  will  thank  me,  after  you  have  read 
my  letter  through,  for  telling  you  first  of  this  place. 

"  From  the  day  of  our  first  learning  that  there  was  a 
young  spirit  among  you  who  had  elected,  for  Christ's 
sake,  to  come  here  and  labor  with  us,  we  had  counted 
the  days  till  she  should  arrive.  The  news  had  spread 
throughout  the  leper  settlement.  Father  Damien  had 
made  it  known  to  the  lepers  in  Kalawao,  Father  Wen- 
dolen  had  likewise  told  it  among  the  lepers  in  Kala- 
paupa,  and  the  Protestant  ministers  spoke  of  it  to  their 
flocks.  Thus  her  name  had  already  become  familiar 
to  hundreds  of  them,  and  many  a  prayer  had  been  of 
fered  up  for  her  safety. 

"  Once  a  week  there  comes  to  Molokai  from  Honolulu 
a  little  steamer  called  Mokolii.  When  it  reached  here  last 
Saturday  morning  it  brought  the  news  that  just  before 
it  sailed  from  Honolulu  the  vessel  bearing  Sister  Dolo- 
rosa  had  come  into  port.  She  had  been  taken  in  charge 
by  the  Sisters  until  the  Mokolii  should  return  and  make 


SISTER    DOLOROSA.  275 

the  next  trip.  I  should  add  that  the  steamer  leaves  at 
about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  that  it  usually 
reaches  here  at  about  dawn  of  the  following  morning  in 
ordinary  weather. 

••  And  now,  dear  Mother,  I  beseech  you  to  lay  my  let 
ter  aside  !  Do  not  read  further  now.  Lay  it  aside,  and 
do  not  take  it  up  again  until  you  have  sought  in  prayer 
the  consolation  of  our  divine  religion  for  the  sorrows 
of  our  lives. 

"  I  shall  believe  that  you  have  done  this,  and  that,  as 
you  now  go  on  with  the  reading  of  my  letter,  you  have 
gained  the  fortitude  to  hear  what  I  have  scarcely  the 
power  to  write.  Heaven  knows  that  in  my  poor  way  I 
have  sought  to  prepare  you  ! 

"  As  it  was  expected  that  the  steamer  would  reach  the 
island  about  dawn  on  Saturday  morning,  as  usual,  it 
had  been  arranged  that  many  of  us  should  be  at  the 
landing-place  to  give  her  welcome.  But  about  mid 
night  one  of  the  terrific  storms  which  visit  this  region 
suddenly  descended,  enveloping  the  heavens,  that  had 
been  full  of  the  light  of  the  stars,  in  impenetrable  dark 
ness.  We  were  sleepless  with  apprehension  that  the 
vessel  would  be  driven  upon  the  rocks — such  was  the 
direction  of  the  storm — long  before  it  could  come  op 
posite  the  villages :  and  a  few  hours  before  day  Father 
Damien,  accompanied  by  Father  Conradi,  Brother  James, 
and  Brother  Joseph,  went  down  to  the  coast.  Through 
the  remaining  hours  of  the  night  they  watched  and  wait 
ed,  now  at  one  point,  and  now  at  another,  knowing  that 
the  vessel  could  never  land  in  such  a  storm.  As  the 
dawn  broke  they  followed  up  the  coast  until  they  came 
opposite  that  rocky  point  of  which  I  have  already  spoker 
as  being  an  irregular  landing-place. 


276  SISTER   DOLOROSA. 

"  Here  they  were  met  by  two  or  three  men  who  were 
drenched  with  the  sea,  and  just  starting  towards  the  vil 
lages,  and  from  them  they  learned  that,  an  hour  or  two 
before,  the  steamer  had  been  driven  upon  the  hidden 
rocks  of  the  point.  It  had  been  feared  that  it  would 
soon  be  sunk  or  dashed  to  pieces,  and  as  quickly  as 
possible  a  boat  had  been  put  off,  in  which  were  the 
leper  girls  that  were  being  brought  from  Honolulu. 
There  was  little  hope  that  it  would  ever  reach  the  shore, 
but  it  was  the  last  chance  of  life.  In  this  boat,  dear 
Mother,  Sister  Dolorosa  also  was  placed.  Immediate 
ly  afterwards  a  second  boat  was  put  off,  containing  the 
others  that  were  on  board. 

"Of  the  fate  of  the  first  boat  they  had  learned  nothing. 
Their  own  had  been  almost  immediately  capsized,  and, 
so  far  as  they  knew,  they  were  the  sole  survivors.  The 
Hawaiians  are  the  most  expert  of  swimmers,  being  al 
most  native  to  the  sea ;  and  since  the  distance  was  short, 
and  only  these  survived,  you  will  realize  how  little  chance 
there  was  for  any  other. 

"  During  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  which  broke 
dark  and  inexpressibly  sad  for  us,  a  few  bodies  were 
found  washed  ashore,  among  them  those  of  two  leper 
girls  of  Honolulu.  But  our  search  for  her  long  proved 
unavailing.  At  length  Father  Damien  suggested  that 
we  follow  up  the  ravine  which  I  have  described,  and  it 
was  thither  that  he  and  Brother  Joseph  and  I  accord 
ingly  went.  Father  Damien  thought  it  well  that  I 
should  go  with  them. 

"  It  was  far  inland,  dear  Mother,  that  at  last  we  found 
her.  She  lay  out-stretched  on  a  bare,  black  rock  of  lava, 
which  sloped  upward  from  the  sea.  Her  naked  white 
feet  rested  on  the  green  moss  that  fringed  its  lower 


SISTER   DOLOROSA.  277 

edge,  and  her  head  was  sheltered  from  the  burning  sun 
by  branches  of  ferns.  Almost  over  her  eyes — the  lids 
of  which  were  stiff  with  the  salt  of  the  ocean — there 
hung  a  spray  of  white  poppies.  It  was  as  though  nat 
ure  would  be  kind  to  her  in  death. 

"  At  the  sight  of  her  face,  so  young,  and  having  in 
it  the  purity  and  the  peace  of  Heaven,  we  knelt  down 
around  her  without  a  word,  and  for  a  while  we  could  do 
nothing  but  weep.  Surely  nothing  so  spotless  was  ever 
washed  ashore  on  this  polluted  island !  If  I  sinned,  I 
pray  to  be  forgiven ;  but  I  found  a  strange  joy  in  think 
ing  that  the  corruption  of  this  terrible  disease  had  never 
been  laid  upon  her.  Heaven  had  accepted  in  advance 
her  faithful  spirit,  and  had  spared  her  the  long  years  of 
bodily  suffering. 

"  At  Father  Damien's  direction  Brother  Joseph  re 
turned  to  the  village  for  a  bier  and  for  four  lepers  who 
should  be  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  When  they  came 
we  laid  her  on  it,  and  bore  her  back  to  the  village, 
where  Mother  Marianne  took  the  body  in  charge  and 
prepared  it  for  burial. 

"  How  shall  I  describe  her  funeral  ?  The  lepers  were 
her  pall-bearers.  The  news  of  the  shipwreck  had  quick 
ly  spread  throughout  the  settlement,  and  these  simple, 
generous  people  yield  themselves  so  readily  to  the  emo 
tion  of  the  hour.  When  the  time  arrived,  it  seemed 
that  all  who  could  walk  had  come  to  follow  her  to  the 
church-yard.  It  was  a  moving  sight — the  long,  waver 
ing  train  of  that  death-stricken  throng,  whose  sufferings 
had  so  touched  the  pity  of  our  Lord  when  he  was  on 
earth,  and  the  desolation  of  whose  fate  she  had  come 
to  lessen.  There  were  the  young  and  the  old  alike, 
Protestants  and  Catholics  without  distinction,  children 


278  SISTER    DOLOROSA. 

with  their  faces  so  strangely  aged  with  ravages  of  the 
leprosy,  those  advanced  in  years  with  theirs  so  muti 
lated  and  marred.  Others,  upon  whom  the  leprosy  had 
made  such  advances  that  they  were  too  weak  to  w7alk, 
sat  in  their  cottage  doors  and  lifted  their  husky  voices 
in  singing  that  wailing  native  hymn  in  which  they  be 
moan  their  hopeless  fate.  Some  of  the  women,  after  a 
fashion  of  their  own,  wore  large  wreaths  of  blue  blos 
soms  and  green  leaves  about  their  withered  faces. 

"And  it  was  thus  that  we  lepers — I  say  we  lepers 
because  I  am  one  of  them,  since  I  cannot  expect  long 
to  escape  the  disease — it  was  thus  that  we  lepers  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  graveyard  in  the  rock  by  the  blue  sea, 
where  Father  Damien  with  his  own  hands  had  helped 
to  dig  her  grave.  And  there,  dear  Mother,  all  that  is 
mortal  of  her  now  rests.  But  we  know  that  ere  this  she 
has  heard  the  words  :  '  I  was  sick  and  ye  visited  me.' 

'•  Mother  Marianne  would  herself  have  written,  but 
she  was  called  away  to  the  Leproserie. 

"  SISTER  AGATHA." 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME;    OR,  A   LEGEND 
OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


postbumous  3f ante ;  or,  a  Xeseno  of  tbe 
Beautiful. 

i. 

THERE  once  lived  in  a  great  city,  where  the  dead  were 
all  but  innumerable,  a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Nich 
olas  Vane,  who  possessed  a  singular  genius  for  the 
making  of  tombstones.  So  beautiful  they  were,  and  so 
fitly  designed  to  express  the  shadowy  pain  of  mortal 
memory  or  the  bright  forecasting  of  eternal  hope,  that 
all  persons  were  held  fortunate  who  could  secure  them 
for  the  calm  resting-places  of  their  beloved  sleepers. 
Indeed,  the  curious  tale  was  whispered  round  that  the 
bereft  were  not  his  only  patrons,  but  that  certain  per 
sonages  who  were  peculiarly  ambitious  of  posthumous 
fame — seeing  they  had  not  long  to  live,  and  unwilling 
to  intrust  others  with  the  grave  responsibility  of  having 
them  commemorated  —  had  gone  to  his  shop  and  se 
cretly  advised  with  him  respecting  such  monuments  as 
might  preserve  their  memories  from  too  swift  oblivion. 

However  this  may  fall  out,  certain  it  is  that  his  call 
ing  had  its  secrets  ;  and  once  he  was  known  to  observe 
that  no  man  could  ever  understand  the  human  heart 
until  he  had  become  a  maker  of  tombstones.  Whether 
the  knowledge  thus  derived  should  make  of  one  a 
laughing  or  a  weeping  philosopher,  Nicholas  himself 
remained  a  joyous  type  of  youthful  manhood — so  joy- 


282  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

ous,  in  fact,  that  a  friend  of  his  who  wrought  in  color, 
strolling  one  day  into  the  workshop  where  Nicholas 
stood  surrounded  by  the  exquisite  shapes  of  memorial 
marbles,  had  asked  to  paint  the  scene  as  a  representa 
tion  of  Life  chiselling  to  its  beautiful  purposes  the  rug 
ged  symbols  of  Death,  and  smiling  as  it  wove  the  words 
of  love  and  faith  across  the  stony  proofs  of  the  univer 
sal  tragedy.  Afterwards,  it  is  true,  a  great  change  was 
wrought  in  the  young  artisan. 

He  had  just  come  in  one  morning  and  paused  to  look 
around  at  the  various  finished  and  unfinished  mortuary 
designs. 

"  Truly,"  he  said  to  himself  all  at  once,  "  if  I  were  a 
wise  man,  I'd  begin  this  day's  business  by  chiselling  my 
own  head-stone.  For  who  knows  but  that  before  sunset 
my  brother  the  grave-digger  may  be  told  to  build  me 
one  of  the  houses  that  last  till  doomsday  !  And  what 
man  could  then  make  the  monument  to  stop  the  door 
of  my  house  with  ?  But  why  should  I  have  a  monu 
ment  ?  If  I  lie  beneath  it,  I  shall  aot  know  I  lie  there. 
If  I  lie  not  there,  then  it  will  not  stand  over  me.  So, 
whether  I  lie  there,  or  lie  not  there,  what  will  it  matter 
to  me  then  ?  Aye  ;  but  what  if,  being  dead  only  to  this 
world  and  living  in  another,  I  should  yet  look  on  the 
monument  erected  to  my  memory  and  therefore  be  the 
happier?  I  know  not;  nor  to  what  end  we  are  vexed 
with  this  desire  to  be  remembered  after  death.  The 
prospect  of  vanishing  from  a  poor,  toilsome  life  fills  us 
with  such  consternation  and  pain !  It  is  therefore  we 
strive  to  impress  ourselves  ineffaceably  on  the  race,  so 
that,  after  we  have  gone  hence,  or  ceased  to  be,  we  may 
still  have  incorporeal  habitation  among  all  coming  gen 
erations." 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  283 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  low  knock  at  the  door. 
Bidden  to  come  in,  there  entered  a  man  of  delicate 
physiognomy,  who  threw  a  hurried  glance  around  and 
inquired  in  an  anxious  tone : 

"  Sir,  are  you  alone  ?" 

"  I  am  never  alone,"  replied  Nicholas  in  a  ringing 
voice;  "for  I  dwell  hard  by  the  gate-way  of  life  and 
death,  through  which  a  multitude  is  always  passing." 

"  Not  so  loud,  I  beseech  you/'  said  the  visitor,  stretch 
ing  forth  his  thin,  white  hands  with  eager  deprecation. 
"  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  any  one  discover  that 
I  have  been  here." 

"Are  you,  then,  a  personage  of  such  importance  to  the 
world?"  said  Nicholas,  smiling,  for  the  stranger's  ap 
pearance  argued  no  worldly  consideration  whatsoever. 
The  suit  of  black,  which  his  frail  figure  seemed  to  shrink 
away  from  with  very  sensitiveness,  was  glossy  and  pa 
thetic  with  more  than  one  covert  patch.  His  shoes 
were  dust-covered  and  worn.  His  long  hair  went  round 
his  head  in  a  swirl,  and  he  bore  himself  with  an  air  of 
damaged,  apologetic,  self-appreciation. 

"  I  am  a  poet,"  he  murmured  with  a  flush  of  pain, 
dropping  his  large  mournful  eyes  beneath  the  scrutiny 
of  one  who  might  be  an  unsympathetic  listener.  "  I  am 
a  poet,  and  I  have  come  to  speak  with  you  privately  of 
my — of  the — of  a  monument.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be 
forgotten.  It  is  a  terrible  thought." 

"  Can  you  not  trust  your  poems  to  keep  you  remem 
bered  ?"  asked  Nicholas,  with  more  kindliness. 

"  I  could  if  they  were  as  widely  read  as  they  should 
be."  He  appeared  emboldened  by  his  hearer's  gentle 
ness.  "  But,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  have  not  been  ac 
cepted  by  my  age.  That,  indeed,  should  give  me  no 


284  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

pain,  since  I  have  not  written  for  it,  but  for  the  great 
future  to  which  alone  I  look  for  my  fame." 

"  Then  why  not  look  to  it  for  your  monument  also  ?" 

"Ah,  sir!"  he  cried,  "there  are  so  many  poets  in  the 
world  that  I  might  be  entirely  overlooked  by  posterity, 
did  there  not  descend  to  it  some  sign  that  I  was  held 
in  honor  by  my  own  generation." 

"  Have  you  never  noticed,"  he  continued,  with  more 
earnestness,  "  that  when  strangers  visit  a  cemetery  they 
pay  no  attention  to  the  thousands  of  little  head-stones 
that  lie  scattered  close  to  the  ground,  but  hunt  out  the 
highest  monuments,  to  learn  in  whose  honor  they  were 
erected  ?  Have  you  never  heard  them  exclaim  :  '  Yonder 
is  a  great  monument !  A  great  man  must  be  buried 
there.  Let  us  go  and  find  out  who  he  was  and  what  he 
did  to  be  so  celebrated.'  Oh,  sir,  you  and  I  know  that 
this  is  a  poor  way  of  reasoning,  since  the  greatest  mon 
uments  are  not  always  set  over  the  greatest  men.  Still 
the  custom  has  wrought  its  good  effects,  and  splendid 
memorials  do  serve  to  make  known  in  years  to  come 
those  whom  they  commemorate,  by  inciting  posterity  to 
search  for  their  actions  or  revive  their  thoughts.  I  war 
rant  you  the  mere  bust  of  Homer — " 

"  You  are  not  mentioning  yourself  in  the  same  breath 
with  Homer,  I  hope/'  said  Nicholas,  with  great  good- 
humor. 

"  My  poems  are  as  dear  to  me  as  Homer's  were  to 
him,"  replied  the  poet,  his  eyes  filling. 

"  What  if  you  are  forgotten  ?  Is  it  not  enough  for 
the  poet  to  have  lived  for  the  sake  of  beauty  ?" 

"  No  !"  he  cried,  passionately.  "  What  you  say  is  a 
miserable  error.  For  the  very  proof  of  the  poet's  voca 
tion  is  in  creating  the  beautiful.  But  how  know  he  has 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  285 

created  it  ?  By  his  own  mind  ?  Alas,  the  poet's  mind 
tells  him  only  what  is  beautiful  to  him  !  It  is  by  fame 
that  he  knows  it — fame,  the  gratitude  of  men  for  the 
beauty  he  has  revealed  to  them!  What  is  so  sweet, 
then,  as  the  knowledge  that  fame  has  come  to  him  al 
ready,  or  surely  awaits  him  after  he  is  dead  ?" 

"  We  labor  under  some  confusion  of  ideas,  I  fear," 
said  Nicholas,  "and,  besides,  are  losing  time.  What 
kind  of  mon  — 

"That  I  leave  to  you,"  interrupted  the  poet.  "Only, 
I  should  like  my  monument  to  be  beautiful.  Ah,  if  you 
but  knew  how  all  through  this  poor  life  of  mine  I  have 
loved  the  beautiful !  Never,  never  have  I  drawn  near 
it  in  any  visible  form  without  almost  holding  my  breath 
as  though  I  were  looking  deep,  deep  into  God's  opened 
eyes.  But  it  was  of  the  epitaph  I  wished  to  speak." 

Hereupon,  with  a  deeper  flush,  he  drew  from  a  large 
inside  breast-pocket,  that  seemed  to  have  been  made 
for  the  purpose,  a  worn  duodecimo  volume,  and  fell  to 
turning  the  much-fingered  pages. 

"  This,"  he  murmured  fondly,  without  looking  up,  "  is 
the  complete  collection  of  my  poems." 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  with  deep  compas 
sion. 

"  Yes,  my  complete  collection.  I  have  written  a  great 
deal  more,  and  should  have  liked  to  publish  all  that  I 
have  written.  But  it  was  necessary  to  select,  and  I  have 
included  here  only  what  it  was  intolerable  to  see  wasted. 
There  is  nothing  I  value  more  than  a  group  of  elegiac 
poems,  which  every  single  member  of  my  large  family 
—  who  are  fine  critics  —  and  all  my  friends,  pronounce 
very  beautiful.  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  in 
scribe  a  selection  from  one  on  my  monument,  since 


286  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

those  who  read  the  selection  would  wish  to  read  the 
entire  poem,  and  those  who  read  the  entire  poem  would 
wish  to  read  the  entire  collection.  I  shall  now  favor 
you  with  these  elegies." 

"  I  should  be  happy  to  hear  them  ;  but  my  time  !" 
said  Nicholas,  courteously.  "The  living  are  too  im 
patient  to  wait  on  me ;  the  dead  too  patient  to  be  de 
frauded." 

"  Surely  you  would  not  refuse  to  hear  one  of  them," 
exclaimed  the  poet,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"  Read  one,  by  all  means."  Nicholas  seated  himself 
on  a  monumental  lamb. 

The  poet  passed  one  hand  gently  across  his  forehead, 
as  though  to  brush  away  the  stroke  of  rudeness  ;  then, 
fixing  upon  Nicholas  a  look  of  infinite  remoteness,  he 
read  as. follows : 

"  He  suffered,  but  he  murmured  not  ; 

To  every  storm  he  bared  his  breast  ; 
He  asked  but  for  the  common  lot  — 
To  be  a  man  among  the  rest. 

"  Here  lies  he  now — " 

"  If  you  ask  but  for  the  common  lot,"  interrupted 
Nicholas,  "  you  should  rest  content  to  be  forgotten." 

But  before  the  poet  could  reply,  a  loud  knock  caused 
him  to  flap  the  leaves  of  the  "  Complete  Collection  "  to 
gether  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  gathered 
the  tails  of  his  long  coat  about  him,  as  though  preparing 
to  pass  through  some  difficult  aperture.  The  exaltation 
of  his  mood,  however,  still  showed  itself  in  the  look  and 
tone  of  proud  condescension  with  which  he  said  to 
Nicholas : 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  287 

"  Permit  me  to  retire  at  once  by  some  private  pass- 
way." 

Nicholas  led  him  to  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the  shop, 
and  there,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear,  stood  for  a  moment 
watching  the  precipitate  figure  of  the  retreating  bard, 
who  suddenly  paused  when  disappearing  and  tore  open 
the  breast  of  his  coat  to  assure  himself  that  his  beloved 
elegies  were  resting  safe  across  his  heart. 

The  seco'nd  visitor  was  of  another  sort.  He  hobbled 
on  a  cork  leg,  but  inexorably  disciplined  the  fleshly  one 
into  old-time  firmness  and  precision.  A  faded  military 
cloak  draped  his  stalwart  figure.  Part  of  one  bushy 
gray  eyebrow  had  been  chipped  away  by  the  same 
sword-cut  that  left  its  scar  across  his  battle-beaten  face. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  with  you  about  my  monu 
ment,"  he  said  in  a  gruff  voice  that  seemed  to  issue 
from  the  mouth  of  a  rusty  cannon.  "  Those  of  my  old 
comrades  that  did  not  fall  at  my  side  are  dead.  My 
wife  died  long  ago,  and  my  little  children.  I  am  old 
and  forgotten.  It  is  a  time  of  peace.  There's  not  a 
boy  who  will  now  listen  to  me  while  I  tell  of  my  cam 
paigns.  I  live  alone.  Were  I  to  die  to-morrow  my 
grave  might  not  have  so  much  as  a  head-stone.  It 
might  be  taken  for  that  of  a  coward.  Make  me  a  monu 
ment  for  a  true  soldier." 

"  Your  grateful  country  will  do  that,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Ha  ?"  exclaimed  the  veteran,  whom  the  shock  of 
battle  had  made  deaf  long  ago. 

"Your  country,"  shouted  Nicholas,  close  to  his  ear, 
"your  country — will  erect  a  monument — to  your  mem 
ory." 

"My  country!"  The  words  were  shot  out  with  a 
reverberating,  melancholy  boom.  "  My  country  will 


288  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

do  no  such  a  thing.  How  many  millions  of  soldiers 
have  fallen  on  her  battle-fields  !  Where  are  their  monu 
ments  ?  They  would  make  her  one  vast  cemetery." 

"  But  is  it  not  enough  for  you  co  have  been  a  true  sol 
dier  ?  Why  wish  to  be  known  and  remembered  for  it?" 

"  I  know  I  do  not  wish  to  be  forgotten,"  he  replied, 
simply.  "I  know  I  take  pleasure  in  the  thought  that 
long  after  I  am  forgotten  there  will  be  a  tongue  in  my 
monument  to  cry  out  to  every  passing  stranger,  '  Here 
lies  the  body  of  a  true  soldier.'  It  is  a  great  thing  to 
be  brave !" 

"  Is,  then,  this  monument  to  be  erected  in  honor  of 
bravery,  or  of  yourself ":" 

"There  is  no  difference,"  said  the  veteran,  bluntly. 
"  Bravery  is  myself." 

"  It  is,  bravery,"  he  continued,  in  husky  tones,  and 
with  a  mist  gathering  in  his  eyes  that  made  him  wink 
as  though  he  were  trying  to  see  through  the  smoke  of 
battle—"  it  is  bravery  that  I  see  most  clearly  in  the 
character  of  God.  What  would  become  of  us  if  he 
were  a  coward  ?  I  serve  him  as  my  brave  commander ; 
and  though  I  am  stationed  far  from  him  and  may  be 
faint  and  sorely  wounded,  I  know  that  he  is  somewhere 
on  the  battle-field,  and  that  I  shall  see  him  at  last,  ap 
proaching  me  as  he  moves  up  and  down  among  the 
ranks." 

"  But  you  say  that  your  country  does  not  notice  you 
— that  you  have  no  friends ;  do  you,  then,  feel  no  re 
sentment  ?" 

"  None,  none,"  he  answered  quickly,  though  his  head 
dropped  on  his  bosom. 

"  And  you  wish  to  be  remembered  by  a  world  that  is 
willing  to  forget  you  ?" 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  289 

He  lifted  his  head  proudly.  "  There  are  many  true 
men  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "  and  it  has  much  to  think 
of.  I  owe  it  all  I  can  give,  all  I  can  bequeath  ;  and  I 
can  bequeath  it  nothing  but  the  memory  of  a  true  man." 

One  day,  not  long  after  this,  there  came  into  the 
workshop  of  Nicholas  a  venerable  man  of  the  gravest, 
sweetest,  and  most  scholarly  aspect,  who  spoke  not  a 
word  until  he  had  led  Nicholas  to  the  front  window 
and  pointed  a  trembling  ringer  at  a  distant  church- 
spire. 

'•You  see  yon  spire?"  he  said.  "It  almost  pierces 
the  clouds.  In  the  church  beneath  I  have  preached  to 
men  and  women  for  nearly  fifty  years.  Many  that  I 
have  christened  at  the  font  I  have  married  at  the  altar ; 
many  of  these  I  have  sprinkled  with  dust.  What  have  I 
not  done  for  them  in  sorrow  and  want !  How  have  I  not 
toiled  to  set  them  in  the  way  of  purer  pleasures  and  to 
anchor  their  tempest-tossed  hopes !  And  yet  how  soon 
they  will  forget  me !  Already  many  say  I  am  too  old 
to  preach.  Too  old !  I  preach  better  than  I  ever  did 
in  my  life.  Yet  it  may  be  my  lot  to  wander  down  into 
the  deep  valley,  an  idle  shepherd  with  an  idle  crook. 
I  have  just  come  from  the  writing  of  my  next  sermon, 
in  which  I  exhort  my  people  to  strive  that  their  names 
be  not  written  on  earthly  monuments  or  human  hearts, 
but  in  the  Book  of  Life.  It  is  my  sublimest  theme. 
If  I  am  ever  eloquent,  if  I  am  ever  persuasive,  if  I  ever 
for  one  moment  draw  aside  to  spiritual  eyes  the  veil 
that  discloses  the  calm,  enrapturing  vistas  of  eternity,  it 
is  when  I  measure  my  finite  strength  against  this 
mighty  task.  But  why  ?  Because  they  are  the  ser 
mons  of  my  own  aspiration.  I  preach  them  to  my  own 
soul.  Face  to  face  with  that  naked  soul  I  pen  those 
19 


2QO  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

sermons — pen  .them  when  all  are  asleep  save  the  sleep 
less  Eye  that  is  upon  me.  Even  in  the  light  of  that 
Eye  do  I  recoil  from  the  thought  of  being  forgotten. 
How  clearly  I  foresee  it !  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ! 
Where  then  will  be  my  doctrines,  my  prayers,  my  ser 
mons  ?" 

"  Is  it  not  enough  for  you  to  have  scattered  your 
handful  of  good  broadcast,  to  ripen  as  endlessly  as  the 
grass  ?  What  if  they  that  gather  know  naught  of  him 
that  sowed  ?" 

"  It  is  not  enough.  I  should  like  the  memory  of  me 
to  live  on  and  on  in  the  world,  inseparable  from  the 
good  I  may  have  done.  What  am  I  but  the  good  that 
is  in  me  ?  'Tis  this  that  links  me  to  the  infinite  and 
the  perfect.  Does  not  the  Perfect  One  wish  his  good 
ness  to  be  associated  with  his  name  ?  No  !  No  !  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  forgotten  !" 

"  It  is  mere  vanity." 

"  Not  vanity,"  said  the  aged  servitor,  meekly.  "  Wait 
until  you  are  old,  till  the  grave  is  at  your  helpless  feet : 
it  is  the  love  of  life." 

But  some  years  later  there  befell  Nicholas  an  event 
that  transcended  all  past  experiences,  and  left  its  im 
press  on  his  whole  subsequent  life. 

II. 

The  hour  had  passed  when  any  one  was  likely  to 
enter  his  shop.  A  few  rays  of  pale  sunlight,  straggling 
in  through  crevices  of  the  door,  rested  like  a  dying  halo 
on  the  heads  of  the  monumental  figures  grouped  around. 
Shadows,  creeping  upward  from  the  ground,  shrouded 
all  else  in  thin,  penetrable  half-gloom,  through  which 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  2Q  r 

the  stark  gray  emblems  of  mortality  sent  forth  more 
solemn  suggestions.  A  sudden  sense  of  the  earthly 
tragedy  overwhelmed  him.  The  chisel  and  the  hammer 
dropped  from  his  hands  and,  resting  his  head  on  the 
block  he  had  been  carving,  he  gave  himself  up  to  that 
mood  of  dim,  distant  reverie  in  which  the  soul  seems  to 
soar  and  float  far  above  the  shock  and  din  of  the  world's 
disturbing  nearness.  On  his  all  but  oblivious  ear,  like 
the  faint  washings  of  some  remote  sea,  beat  the  waves 
of  the  city's  tide-driven  life  in  the  streets  outside.  The 
room  itself  seemed  hushed  to  the  awful  stillness  of  the 
high  aerial  spaces.  Then  all  at  once  this  stillness  was 
broken  by  a  voice,  low,  clear,  and  tremuluous,  saying 
close  to  his  ear  : 

"  Are  you  the  maker  of  gravestones  ?" 

"  That  is  my  sad  calling,"  he  cried,  bitterly,  starting 
up  with  instinctive  forebodings. 

He  saw  before  him  a  veiled  figure.  To  support  her 
self,  she  rested  one  hand  on  the  block  he  had  been 
carving,  while  she  pressed  the  other  against  her  heart, 
as  though  to  stifle  pain. 

"  Whose  monument  is  this  ?" 

"  A  neglected  poet's  who  died  not  long  ago.  Soon, 
perhaps,  I  shall  be  making  one  for  an  old  soldier,  and 
one  for  a  holy  man,  whose  soul,  I  hear,  is  about  to  be 
dismissed." 

"  Are  not  some  monuments  sadder  to  make  than 
others  ?" 

"Aye,  truly." 

"  What  is  the  saddest  you  ever  made  ?" 

"The  saddest  monument  I  ever  made  was  one  for  a 
poor  mother  who  had  lost  her  only  son.  One  day  a 
woman  came  in  who  had  no  sooner  entered  than  she 


292  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

sat  down  and  gave  way  to  a  passionate  outburst  of 
grief." 

" '  My  good  woman,'  I  said,  '  why  do  you  weep  so 
bitterly  ?' 

" '  Do  not  call  me  good,'  she  moaned,  and  hid  her 
face. 

"  I  then  perceived  her  fallen  character.  When  she 
recovered  self-control  she  drew  from  her  sinful  bosom 
an  old  purse  filled  with  coins  of  different  values. 

" '  Why  do  you  give  me  this  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  It  is  to  pay  for  a  monument  for  my  son,'  she  said, 
and  the  storm  of  her  grief  swept  over  her  again. 

"  I  learned  that  for  years  she  had  toiled  and  starved 
to  hoard  up  a  sum  with  which  to  build  a  monument  to 
his  memory,  for  he  had  never  failed  of  his  duty  to  her 
after  all  others  had  cast  her  out.  Certainly  he  had  his 
reward,  not  in  the  monument,  but  in  the  repentance 
which  came  to  her  after  his  death.  I  have  never  seen 
such  sorrow  for  evil  as  the  memory  of  his  love  wrought 
in  her.  For  herself  she  desired  only  that  the  spot 
where  she  should  be  buried  might  be  unknown.  This 
longing  to  be  forgotten  has  led  me  to  believe  that  none 
desire  to  remembered  for  the  evil  that  is  in  them,  but 
only  for  some  truth,  or  beauty,  or  goodness  by  which 
they  have  linked  their  individual  lives  to  the  general 
life  of  the  race.  Even  the  lying  epitaphs  in  cemeteries 
prove  how  we  would  fain  have  the  dead  arrayed  on  the 
side  of  right  in  the  thoughts  of  their  survivors.  This 
wretched  mother  and  human  outcast,  believing  herself 
to  have  lost  everything  that  makes  it  well  to  be  remem 
bered,  craved  only  the  mercy  of  forgetfulness."  . 

"  And  yet  I  think  she  died  a  Christian  soul." 

"  You  knew  her,  then  ?" 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 


293 


"  I  was  with  her  in  her  last  hours.  She  told  me  her 
story.  She  told  me  also  of  you,  and  that  you  would 
accept  nothing  for  the  monument  you  were  at  such  care 
to  make.  It  is  perhaps  for  this  reason  that  I  have  felt 
some  desire  to  see  you,  and  that  I  am  here  now  to 
speak  with  you  of— 

A  shudder  passed  over  her. 

"  After  all,  that  was  not  a  sad,  but  a  joyous  monu 
ment  to  fashion,"  she  added,  abruptly. 

"  Aye,  it  was  joyous.  But  to  me  the  joyous  and  the 
sad  are  much  allied  in  the  things  of  this  life." 

"  And  yet  there  might  be  one  monument  wholly  sad, 
might  there  not?" 

"There  might  be,  but  I  know  not  whose  it  would  be." 

"  If  she  you  love  should  die,  would  not  hers  be  so  ?" 

'•Until  I  love,  and  she  I  love  is  dead,  I  cannot 
know,"  said  Nicholas,  smiling. 

"  What  builds  the  most  monuments  ?"  she  asked, 
quickly,  as  though  to  retreat  from  her  levity. 

"Pride  builds  many  —  splendid  ones.  Gratitude 
builds  some,  forgiveness  some,  and  pity  some.  But 
faith  builds  more  than  these,  though  often  poor,  hum 
ble  ones ;  and  love  ! — love  builds  more  than  all  things 
else  together." 

"  And  what,  of  all  things  that  monuments  are  built 
in  memory  of,  is  most  loved  and  soonest  forgotten  ?" 
she  asked,  with  intensity. 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  tell  that." 

"  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  woman  ?  This,  you  say,  is  the 
monument  of  a  poet.  After  the  poet  grows  old,  men 
love  him  for  the  songs  he  sang ;  they  love  the  old  sol 
dier  for  the  battles  he  fought,  and  the  preacher  for  his 
remembered  prayers.  But  a  woman !  Who  loves  her 


294  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

for  the  beauty  she  once  possessed,  or  rather  regards 
her  not  with  the  more  distaste  ?  Is  there  in  history 
a  figure  so  lonely  and  despised  as  that  of  the  woman 
who,  once  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  crept  back 
into  her  native  land  a  withered  hag?  Or,  if  a  woman 
die  while  she  is  yet  beautiful,  how  long  is  she  remem 
bered  ?  Her  beauty  is  like  heat  and  light — powerful 
only  for  those  who  feel  and  see  it." 

But  Nicholas  had  scarcely  heard  her.  His  eyes  had 
become  riveted  upon  her  hand,  which  rested  on  the 
marble,  as  white  as  though  grown  out  of  it  under  the 
labors  of  his  chisel. 

"  My  lady,"  he  said,  with  the  deepest  respect,  "  will 
you  permit  me  to  look  at  your  hand  ?  I  have  carved 
many  a  one  in  marble,  and  studied  many  a  one  in  life ; 
but  never  have  I  seen  anything  so  beautiful  as  yours." 

He  took  it  with  an  artist's  impetuosity  and  bent  over 
it,  laying  its  palm  against  one  of  his  own  and  stroking 
it  softly  with  the  other.  The  blood  leaped  through  his 
heart,  and  he  suddenly  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

"God  only  can  make  the  hand  beautiful,"  he  said. 

Displaced  by  her  arm  which  he  had  upraised,  the 
light  fabric  that  had  concealed  her  figure  parted  on  her 
bosom  and  slipped  to  the  ground.  His  eyes  swept  over 
the  perfect  shape  that  stood  revealed.  The  veil  still 
concealed  her  face.  The  strangely  mingled  emotions 
that  had  been  deepening  within  him  all  this  time  now 
blended  themselves  in  one  irrepressible  wish. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  see  your  face  ?" 

She  drew  quickly  back.  A  subtle  pain  was  in  his 
voice  as  he  cried : 

"  Oh,  my  lady  ?  I  ask  it  as  one  who  has  pure  eyes  for 
the  beautiful." 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  295 

"  My  face  belongs  to  my  past.  It  has  been  my  sor 
row  ;  it  is  nothing  now." 

"Only  permit  me  to  see  it !" 

"  Is  there  no  other  face  you  would  rather  see  ?" 

Who  can  fathom  the  motive  of  a  woman's  questions  ? 

"  None,  none !" 

She  drew  aside  her  veil,  and  her  eyes  rested  quietly 
on  his  like  a  revelation.  So  young  she  was  as  hardly 
yet  to  be  a  woman,  and  her  beauty  had  in  it  that  se 
raphic  purity  and  mysterious  pathos  which  is  never  seen 
in  a  woman's  face  until  the  touch  of  another  world  has 
chastened  her  spirit  into  the  resignation  of  a  saint. 
The  heart  of  Nicholas  was  wrung  by  the  sight  of  it 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  inconsolable  loss  and  longing. 

"Oh,  my  lady!"  he  cried,  sinking  on  one  knee  and 
touching  his  lips  to  her  hand  with  greater  gentleness. 
'"  Do  you  indeed  think  the  beauty  of  a  woman  so  soon 
forgotten  ?  As  long  as  I  live,  yours  will  be  as  fresh  in 
my  memory  as  it  was  the  moment  after  I  first  saw  it  in 
its  perfection  and  felt  its  power." 

"Do  not  recall  to  me  the  sorrow  of  such  thoughts." 
She  touched  her  heart.  "  My  heart  is  a  tired  hour-glass. 
Already  the  sands  are  wellnigh  .run  through.  Any 
hour  it  may  stop,  and  then — out  like  a  light !  Shape 
less  ashes !  I  have  loved  life  well,  but  not  so  well  that 
I  have  not  been  able  to  prepare  to  leave  it." 

She  spoke  with  the  utmost  simplicity  and  calmness, 
yet  her  eyes  were  turned  with  unspeakable  sadness 
towards  the  shadowy  recesses  of  the  room,  where  from 
their  pedestals  the  monumental  figures  looked  down 
upon  her  as  though  they  would  have  opened  their  mar 
ble  lips  and  said,  "  Poor  child  !  Poor  child  !" 

"  I  have  had  my  wish  to  see  you  and  to  see  this  place. 


296  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

Before  long  some  one  will  come  here  to  have  you  carve 
a  monument  to  the  most  perishable  of  all  things.  Like 
the  poor  mother  who  had  no  wish  to  be  remembered — " 

Nicholas  was  moved  to  the  deepest. 

"  I  have  but  little  skill,"  he  said.  "  The  great  God 
did  not  bestow  on  me  the  genius  of  his  favorite  chil 
dren  of  sculpture.  But  if  so  sad  and  sacred  a  charge 
should  ever  become  mine,  with  hi-s  help  I  will  rear  such 
a  monument  to  your  memory  that  as  long  as  it  stands 
none  who  see  it  will  ever  be  able  to  forget  you.  Year 
after  year  your  memory  shall  grow  as  a  legend  of  the 
beautiful." 

When  she  was  gone  he  sat  self-forgetful  until  the 
darkness  grew  impenetrable.  As  he  groped  his  way 
out  at  last  along  the  thick  guide-posts  of  death,  her 
voice  seemed  to  float  towards  him  from  every  head 
stone,  her  name  to  be  written  in  every  epitaph. 

The  next  day  a  shadow  brooded  over  the  place.  Day 
by  day  it  deepened.  He  went  out  to  seek  intelligence 
of  her.  In  the  quarter  of  the  city  where  she  lived  he 
discovered  that  her  name  had  already  become  a  nu 
cleus  around  which  were  beginning  to  cluster  many 
little  legends  of  the  beautiful.  He  had  but  to  hear  re 
citals  of  her  deeds  of  kindness  and  mercy.  For  the 
chance  of  seeing  her  again  he  began  to  haunt  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  then,  having  seen  her,  he  would  return  to  his 
shop  the  victim  of  more  unavailing  desire.  All  things 
combined  to  awake  in  him  that  passion  of  love  whose 
roots  are  nourished  in  the  soul's  finest  soil  of  pity  and 
hopelessness.  Once  or  twice,  under  s.ome  pretext,  he 
made  bold  to  accost  her ;  and  once,  under  the  stress  of 
his  passion,  he  mutely  lifted  his  eyes,  confessing  his 
love  ;  but  hers  were  turned  aside. 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  297 

Meantime  he  began  to  dream  of  the  monument  he 
chose  to  consider  she  had  committed  to  his  making. 
It  should  be  the  triumph  of  his  art ;  but  more,  it  would 
represent  in  stone  the  indissoluble  union  of  his  love 
with  her  memory.  Through  him  alone  would  she  en 
ter  upon  her  long  after-life  of  saint-like  reminiscence. 

When  the  tidings  of  her  death  came,  he  soon  sprang 
up  from  the  prostration  of  his  grief  with  a  burning  de 
sire  to  consummate  his  beloved  work. 

"Year  after  year  your  memory  shall  grow  as  a  le 
gend  of  the  beautiful." 

These  words  now  became  the  inspiration  of  his  mas 
terpiece.  Day  and  night  it  took  shape  in  the  rolling 
chaos  of  his  sorrow.  What  sculptor  in  the  world  ever 
espoused  the  execution  of  a  work  that  lured  more  irre 
sistibly  from  their  hiding-places  the  shy  and  tender 
ministers  of  his  genius  ?  What  one  ever  explored  with 
greater  boldness  the  utmost  limits  of  artistic  expres 
sion,  or  wrought  in  sterner  defiance  of  the  laws  of  our 
common  forgetfulness  ? 

III. 

One  afternoon,  when  people  thronged  the  great  cem 
etery  of  the  city,  a  strolling  group  were  held  fascinated 
by  the  unique  loveliness  of  a  newly  erected  monument. 

"  Never,"  they  exclaimed,  "  have  we  seen  so  exquisite 
a  masterpiece.  In  whose  honor  is  it  erected  ?'' 

But  when  they  drew  nearer,  they  found  carved  on  it 
simply  a  woman's  name. 

"Who  was  she?"  they  asked,  puzzled  and  disap 
pointed.  "  Is  there  no  epitaph  ?" 

"  Aye,"  spoke  up  a  young  man  lying  on  the  grass 


298  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

and  eagerly  watching  the  spectators.  "  Aye,  a  very  fit 
ting  epitaph." 

"  Where  is  it  ?" 

"Carved  on  the  heart  of  the  monument!"  he  cried, 
in  a  tone  of  triumph. 

"  On  the  heart  of  the  monument  ?  Then  we  cannot 
see  it." 

"  It  is  not  meant  to  be  seen." 

"  How  do  you  know  of  it  ?" 

"  I  made  the  monument." 

"  Then  tell  us  what  it  is." 

"It  cannot  be  told.1  It  is  there  only  because  it  is 
unknown." 

"  Out  on  you  !  You  play  your  pranks  with  the  liv 
ing  and  the  dead." 

"  You  will  live  to  regret  this  day,"  said  a  thoughtful 
by-stander.  "  You  have  tampered  with  the  memory  of 
the  dead." 

"  Why,  look  you,  good  people,"  cried  Nicholas,  spring 
ing  up  and  approaching  his  beautiful  master-work.  He 
rested  one  hand  lovingly  against  it  and  glanced  around 
him  pale  with  repressed  excitement,  as  though  a  long- 
looked-for  moment  had  at  length  arrived.  "  I  play  no 
pranks  with  the  living  or  the  dead.  Young  as  I  am,  I 
have  fashioned  many  monuments,  as  this  cemetery  will 
testify.  But  I  make  no  more.  This  is  my  last;  and  as 
it  is  the  last,  so  it  is  the  greatest.  For  I  have  fashioned 
it  in  such  love  and  sorrow  for  her  who  lies  beneath  it 
as  you  can  never  know.  If  it  is  beautiful,  it  is  yet  an 
unworthy  emblem  of  that  brief  and  transporting  beauty 
which  was  hers ;  and  I  have  planted  it  here  beside  her 
grave,  that  as  a  delicate  white  flower  it  may  exhale  the 
perfume  of  her  memory  for  centuries  to  come. 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 


299 


"Tell  me,"  he  went  on,  his  lips  trembling,  his  voice 
faltering  with  the  burden  of  oppressive  hope — "tell 
me,  you  who  behold  it  now,  do  you  not  wed  her  mem 
ory  deathlessly  to  it  ?  To  its  fair  shape,  its  native  and 
unchanging  purity  ?" 

"  Aye,"  they  interrupted,  impatiently.  "  But  the  epi 
taph  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  he  cried,  with  tenderer  feeling,  "  beautiful  as 
the  monument  is  to  the  eye,  it  would  be  no  fit  emblem 
of  her  had  it  not  something  sacred  hidden  within.  For 
she  was  not  lovely  to  the  sense  alone,  but  had  a  per 
fect  heart.  So  I  have  placed  within  the  monument 
that  which  is  its  heart,  and  typifies  hers.  And,  mark 
you  !'•'  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  such  awful  warning  that- 
those  standing  nearest  him  instinctively  shrank  back, 
"  the  one  is  as  inviolable  as  the  other.  No  more  could 
you  rend  the  heart  from  the  human  bosom  than  this 
epitaph  from  the  monument.  My  deep  and  lasting 
curse  on  him  who  attempts  it !  For  I  have  so  fitted 
the  parts  of  the  work  together,  that  to  disunite  would 
be  to  break  them  in  pieces  ;  and  the  inscription  is  so 
fragile  and  delicately  poised  within,  that  so  much  as 
rudely  to  jar  the  monument  would  shiver  it  to  atoms. 
It  is  put  there  to  be  inviolable.  Seek  to  know  it,  you 
destroy  it.  This  I  but  create  after  the  plan  of  the  Great 
Artist,  who  shows  you  only  the  fair  outside  of  his  mas 
terpieces.  What  human  eye  ever  looked  into  the  mys 
terious  heart  of  his  beautiful — that  heart  which  holds 
the  secret  of  inexhaustible  freshness  and  eternal  power  ? 
Could  this  epitaph  have  been  carved  on  the  outside, 
you  would  have  read  it  and  forgotten  it  with  natural 
satiety.  But  uncomprehended,  what  a  spell  I  mark  it 
exercises  !  You  will — nay,  you  must — remember  it  for- 


300  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

ever !  You  will  speak  of  it  to  others.  They  will  come. 
And  thus  in  ever-widening  circle  will  be  borne  afar 
the  memory  of  her  whose  name  is  on  it,  the  emblem  of 
whose  heart  is  hidden  within.  And  what  more  fitting 
memorial  could  a  man  rear  to  a  woman,  the  pure  shell 
of  whose  beauty  all  can  see,  the  secret  of  whose  beau 
tiful  being  no  one  ever  comprehends  ?" 

He  walked  rapidly  away,  then,  some  distance  off, 
turned  and  looked  back.  More  spectators  had  come 
up.  Some  were  earnestly  talking,  pointing  now  to  the 
monument,  now  towards  him.  Others  stood  in  rapt 
contemplation  of  his  master-work. 

Tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  A  look  of  ineffable  joy  over 
spread  his  face. 

"  Oh,  my  love !"  he  murmured,  "  I  have  triumphed. 
Death  has  claimed  your  body,  heaven  your  spirit ;  but 
the  earth  claims  the  saintly  memory  of  each.  This  day 
about  your  name  begins  to  grow  the  Legend  of  the 
Beautiful." 

The  sun  had  just  set.  The  ethereal  white  shape  of 
the  monument  stood  outlined  against  a  soft  background 
of  rose-colored  sky.  To  his  transfiguring  imagination 
it  seemed  lifted  far  into  the  cloud-based  heavens,  and 
the  evening  star,  resting  above  its  apex,  was  a  celestial 
lamp  lowered  to  guide  the  eye  to  it  through  the  dark 
ness  of  the  descending  night. 

IV. 

Mysterious  complexity  of  our  mortal  nature  and  es 
tate  that  we  should  so  desire  to  be  remembered  after 
death,  though  born  to  be  forgotten  !  Our  words  and 
deeds,  the  influences  of  our  silent  personalities,  do  in- 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  301 

deed  pass  from  us  into  the  long  history  of  the' race  and 
abide  for  the  rest  of  time :  so  that  an  earthly  immor 
tality  is  the  heritage,  nay,  the  inalienable  necessity,  of 
even  the  commonest  lives ;  only  it  is  an  immortality 
not  of  self,  but  of  its  good  and  evil.  For  Nature  sows 
us  and  reaps  us,  that  she  may  gather  a  harvest,  not  of 
us,  but  from  us.  It  is  God  alone  that  gathers  the  har 
vest  of  us.  And  well  for  us  that  our  destiny  should  be 
that  general  forgetfulness  we  so  strangely  shrink  from. 
For  no  sooner  are  we  gone  hence  than,  even  for  such 
brief  times  as  our  memories  may  endure,  we  are  apt  to 
grow  by  processes  of  accumulative  transformation  into 
what  we  never  were.  Thou  kind,  kind  fate,  therefore — 
never  enough  named  and  celebrated  —  that  biddest  the 
sun  of  memory  rise  on  our  finished  but  imperfect  lives, 
and  then  lengthenest  or  shortenest  the  little  day  of 
posthumous  reminiscence,  according  as  thou  seest  there 
is  need  of  early  twilight  or  of  deeper  shadows  ! 

Years  passed.  City  and  cemetery  were  each  grown 
vaster.  It  was  again  an  afternoon  when  the  people 
strolled  among  the  graves  and  monuments.  An  old 
man  had  courteously  attached  himself  to  a  group  that 
stood  around  a  crumbling  memorial.  He  had  reached 
a  great  age ;  but  his  figure  was  erect,  his  face  animated 
by  strong  emotions,  and  his  eyes  burned  beneath  his 
brows. 

"  Sirs,"  said  he,  interposing  in  the  conversation,  which 
turned  wholly  on  the  monument,  "  you  say  nothing  of 
him  in  whose  honor  it  was  erected." 

"We  say  nothing  because  we  know  nothing." 

"  Is  he  then  wholly  forgotten  ?" 

"  We  are  not  aware  that  he  is  at  all  remembered.'" 


302  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

"  The  "inscription  reads  :  '  He  was  a  poet.'  Know 
you  none  of  his  poems  ?" 

"  We  have  never  so  much  as  heard  of  his  poems." 

"  My  eyes  are  dim ;  is  there  nothing  carved  beneath 
his  name  ?" 

One  of  the  by-standers  went  up  and  knelt  down  close 
to  the  base. 

"  There  was  something  here,  but  it  is  effaced  by  time 
— Wait !"  And  tracing  his  finger  slowly  along,  he  read 
like  a  child : 

' '  He  —  asked  —  but  —  for  —  the  —  common  —  lot. 

"That  is  all,"  he  cried,  springing  lightly  up.  "Oh,  the 
dust  on  my  knees  I"  he  added  with  vexation. 

"  He  may  have  sung  very  sweetly,"  pursued  the  old 
man. 

"  He  may,  indeed  !"  they  answered,  carelessly. 

"  But,  sirs,"  continued  he,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  per 
haps  you  are  the  very  generation  that  he  looked  to 
for  the  fame  which  his  own  denied  him  ;  perhaps  he 
died  believing  that  you  would  fully  appreciate  his 
poems." 

"  If  so,  it  was  a  comfortable  faith  to  die  in,"  they 
said,  laughing,  in  return.  "  He  will  never  know  that  we 
did  not.  A  few  great  poets  have  posthumous  fame : 
we  know  them  well  enough."  And  they  passed  on. 

"This,"  said  the  old  man,  as  they  paused  elsewhere, 
"  seems  to  be  the  monument  of  a  true  soldier :  know 
you  aught  of  the  victories  he  helped  to  win  ?" 

"  He  may  not  have  helped  to  win  any  victories.  He 
may  have  been  a  coward.  How  should  we  know?  Epi 
taphs  often  lie.  The  dust  is  peopled  with  soldiers." 
And  again  they  moved  on. 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  303 

"  Does  any  one  read  his  sermons  now,  know  you  ?" 
asked  the  old  man  as  they  paused  before  a  third  mon 
ument. 

"  Read  his  sermons  !"  they  exclaimed,  laughing  more 
heartily.  "Are  sermons  so  much  read  in  the  country 
you  come  from  ?  See  how  long  he  has  been  dead  ! 
What  should  the  world  be  thinking  of,  to  be  reading 
his  musty  sermons  ?" 

"At  least  does  it  give  you  no  pleasure  to  read  '  He 
was  a  good  man  ?'  "  inquired  he,  plaintively. 

"Aye ;  but  if  he  was  good,  was  not  his  goodness  its 
own  reward  ?" 

"  He  may  have  also  wished  long  to  be  remembered 
for  it." 

"  Naturally ;  but  we  have  not  heard  that  his  wish  was 
gratified." 

"  Is  it  not  sad  that  the  memory  of  so  much  beauty 
and  truth  and  goodness  in  our  common  human  life 
should  perish  ?  But,  sirs," —  and  here  the  old  man 
spoke  with  sudden  energy — "if  there  should  be  one 
who  combined  perfect  beauty  and  truth  and  goodness 
in  one  form  and  character,  do  you  not  think  such  a  rare 
being  would  escape  the  common  fate  and  be  long  and 
widely  remembered  ?" 

"  Doubtless." 

"  Sirs,"  said  he,  quickly  stepping  in  front  of  them  with 
flashing  eyes,  "  is  there  in  all  this  vast  cemetery  not  a 
single  monument  that  has  kept  green  the  memory  of 
the  being  in  whose  honor  it  was  erected  ?" 

"Aye,  aye,"  they  answered,  readily.  "  Have  you  not 
heard  of  it  ?" 

"  I  am  but  come  from  distant  countries.  Many  years 
ago  I  was  here,  and  have  journeyed  hither  with  much 


304  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

desire  to  see  the  place  once  more.  Would  you  kindly 
show  me  this  monument  ?" 

"  Come  !"  they  answered,  eagerly,  starting  off.  "  It 
is  the  best  known  of  all  the  thousands  in  the  cemetery. 
None  who  see  it  can  ever  forget  it." 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  murmured  the  old  man.  "  That  is  why 
I  have — I  foresaw —  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  monument  ? 
Does  it  not  lie — in  what  direction  does  it  lie  ?" 

A  feverish  eagerness  seized  him.  He  walked  now  be 
side,  now  before,  his  companions.  Once  he  wheeled  on 
them. 

"  Sirs,  did  you  not  say  it  perpetuates  the  memory  of 
her — of  the  one — who  lies  beneath  it?" 

"  Both  are  famous.  The  story  of  this  woman  and 
her  monument  will  never  be  forgotten.  It  is  impossible 
to  forget  it." 

"  Year  after  year — "  muttered  he,  brushing  his  hand 
across  his  eyes. 

They  soon  came  to  a  spot  where  the  aged  branches 
of  memorial  evergreens  interwove  a  sunless  canopy,  and 
spread  far  around  a  drapery  of  gloom  through  which 
the  wind  passed  with  an  unending  sigh.  Brushing  aside 
the  lowest  boughs,  they  stepped  in  awe-stricken  silence 
within  the  dank,  chill  cone  of  shade.  Before  them  rose 
the  shape  of  a  gray  monument,  at  sight  of  which  the 
aged  traveller,  who  had  fallen  behind,  dropped  his  staff 
and  held  out  his  arms  as  though  he  would  have  em 
braced  it.  But,  controlling  himself,  he  stepped  forward, 
and  said,  in  tones  of  thrilling  sweetness : 

"  Sirs,  you  have  not  told  me  what  story  is  connected 
with  this  monument  that  it  should  be  so  famous.  I 
conceive  it  must  be  some  very  touching  one  of  her 
whose  name  I  read — some  beautiful  legend — 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  305 

"Judge  you  of  that!"  interrupted  one  of  the  group, 
with  a  voice  of  stern  sadness  and  not  without  a  certain 
look  of  mysterious  horror.  "  They  say  this  monument 
was  reared  to  a  woman  by  the  man  who  once  loved  her. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  and  so  he  made  her  a  very  beau 
tiful  monument.  But  she  had  a  heart  so  hideous  in  its 
falsity  that  he  carved  in  stone  an  enduring  curse  on  her 
evil  memory,  and  hung  it  in  the  heart  of  the  monument 
because  it  was  too  awful  for  any  eye  to  see.  But  oth 
ers  tell  the  story  differently.  They  say  the  woman  not 
only  had  a  heart  false  beyond  description,  but  was  in 
person  the  ugliest  of  her  sex.  So  that  while  the  hidden 
curse  is  a  lasting  execration  of  her  nature,  the  beautiful 
exterior  is  a  masterpiece  of  mockery  which  her  nature, 
and  not  her  ugliness,  maddened  his  sensitive  genius  to 
perpetrate.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  is  the  true 
story,  as  hundreds  tell  it  now,  and  that  the  woman  will 
be  remembered  so  long  as  the  monument  stands — aye, 
and  longer — not  only  for  her  loathsome —  Help  the 
old  man !" 

He  had  fallen  backward  to  the  ground.  They  tried 
in  vain  to  set  him  on  his  feet.  Stunned,  speechless,  he 
could  only  raise  himself  on  one  elbow  and  turn  his  eyes 
towards  the  monument  with  a  look  of  preternatural  hor 
ror,  as  though  the  lie  had  issued  from  its  treacherous 
shape.  At  length  he  looked  up  to  them,  as  they  bent 
kindly  over  him,  and  spoke  with  much  difficulty : 

"  Sirs,  I  am  an  old  man — a  very  old  man,  and  very 
feeble.  Forgive  this  weakness.  And  I  have  come  a 
long  way,  and  must  be  faint.  While  you  were  speaking 
my  strength  failed  me.  You  were  telling  me  a  story — 
were  you  not? — the  story — the  legend  of  a  most  beauti 
ful  woman,  when  all  at  once  my  senses  grew  confused 


306  POSTHUMOUS    FAME. 

and  I  failed  to  hear  you  rightly.  Then  my  ears  played 
me  such  a  trick !  Oh,  sirs  !  if  you  but  knew  what  a 
damnable  trick  my  ears  played  me,  you  would  pity  me 
greatly,  very,  very  greatly.  This  story  touches  me.  It 
is  much  like  one  I  seemed  to  have  heard  for  many  years, 
and  that  I  have  been  repeating  over  and  over  to  myself 
until  I  love  it  better  than  my  life.  If  you  would  but  go 
over  it  again — carefully — very  carefully." 

"  My  God,  sirs  !"  he  exclaimed,  springing  up  with  the 
energy  of  youth  when  he  had  heard  the  recital  a  second 
time,  "  tell  me  who  started  this  story !  Tell  me  how  and 
where  it  began  !" 

"We  cannot.  We  have  heard  many  tell  it,  and  not 
all  alike." 

"  And  do  they — do  you — believe — it  is — true  ?"  he 
asked,  helplessly. 

"We  all  know  it  is  true  ;  do  not  you  believe  it?" 

"  I  can  never  forget  it !"  he  said,  in  tones  quickly 
grown  harsh  and  husky.  "  Let  us  go  away  from  so  pit 
iful  a  place." 

It  was  near  nightfall  when  he  returned,  unobserved, 
and  sat  down  beside  the  monument  as  one  who  had 
ended  a  pilgrimage. 

"  They  all  tell  me  the  same  story,"  he  murmured, 
wearily.  "  Ah,  it  was  the  hidden  epitaph  that  wrought 
the  error !  But  for  it,  the  sun  of  her  memory  would 
have  had  its  brief,  befitting  day  and  tender  setting. 
Presumptuous  folly,  to  suppose  they  would  understand 
my  masterpiece,  when  they  so  often  misconceive  the 
hidden  heart  of  His  beautiful  works,  and  convert  the 
uncomprehended  good  and  true  into  a  curse  of  evil !" 

The  night  fell.  He  was  awaiting  it.  Nearer  and 
nearer  rolled  the  dark,  suffering  heart  of  a  storm ; 


POSTHUMOUS    FAME.  307 

nearer  towards  the  calm,  white  breasts  of  the  dead. 
Over  the  billowy  graves  the  many-footed  winds  sudden 
ly  fled  away  in  a  wild,  tumultuous  cohort.  Overhead, 
great  black  bulks  swung  heavily  at  one  another  across 
the  tremulous  stars. 

Of  all  earthly  spots,  where  does  the  awful  discord  of 
the  elements  seem  so  futile  and  theatric  as  in  a  vast 
cemetery?  Blow,  then,  winds,  till  you  uproot  the  trees! 
Pour,  floods,  pour,  till  the  water  trickles  down  into  the 
face  of  the  pale  sleeper  below !  Rumble  and  flash,  ye 
clouds,  till  the  earth  trembles  and  seems  to  be  aflame ! 
But  not  a  lock  of  hair,  so  carefully  put  back  over  the 
brows,  is  tossed  or  disordered.  The  sleeper  has  not 
stretched  forth  an  arm  and  drawn  the  shroud  closer 
about  his  face,  to  keep  out  the  wet.  Not  an  ear  has 
heard  the  riving  thunderbolt,  nor  so  much  as  an  eyelid 
trembled  on  the  still  eyes  for  all  the  lightning's  fury. 

But  had  there  been  another  human  presence  on  the 
midnight  scene,  some  lightning  flash  would  have  reveal 
ed  the  old  man,  a  grand,  a  terrible  figure,  in  sympathy 
with  its  wild,  sad  violence.  He  stood  beside  his  mas 
terpiece,  towering  to  his  utmost  height  in  a  posture  of 
all  but  superhuman  majesty  and  strength.  His  long 
white  hair  and  longer  white  beard  streamed  outward  on 
the  roaring  winds.  His  arms,  bared  to  the  shoulder, 
swung  aloft  a  ponderous  hammer.  His  face,  ashen- 
gray  as  the  marble  before  him,  was  set  with  an  expres 
sion  of  stern  despair.  Then,  as  the  thunder  crashed, 
his  hammer  fell  on  the  monument.  Bolt  after  bolt, 
blow  after  blow.  Once  more  he  might  have  been  seen 
kneeling  beside  the  ruin,  his  eyes  strained  close  to  its 
heart,  awaiting  another  flash  to  tell  him  that  the  inviola 
ble  epitaph  had  shared  in  the  destruction. 


308  POSTHUMOUS    FAME, 

For  days  following  many  curious  eyes  came  to  peer 
into  the  opened  heart  of  the  shattered  structure,  but  in 
vain. 

Thus  the  masterpiece  of  Nicholas  failed  of  its  end, 
though  it  served  another.  For  no  one  could  have  heard 
the  story  of  it,  before  it  was  destroyed,  without  being 
made  to  realize  how  melancholy  that  a  man  should  rear 
a  monument  of  execration  to  the  false  heart  of  the  wom 
an  he  once  had  loved;  and  how  terrible  for  mankind  to 
celebrate  the  dead  for  the  evil  that  was  in  them  instead 
of  the  good. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-25rn-7,'61(Cl437s4)4280 


College 
Library 


' 


UCLA-College  Library 

PS  1034  F67  1891 


